aiE)R.AFLY 

OF   THE 
UNIVLRSITY 
or    ILLINOIS 

PRLSLNTED  5Y 

THE  ESTATE 

OF 

DR.  AND  MRS.  S.  M.  WYLIE 

1950 


AND   SOFHY 


.HY   WOULD    NUT   ACT.'-p.  400. 

AYhatwillhedoNvithit?  vol.  i. 


v./ 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 


BOOK    FIRST 


"^      *  CHAPTER   I. 

-.      In  which  the  History  opens  with  a  description  of  the  Social  Man- 
^^  ners,  Habits,  and  Amusements  of  the  English  People,  as  exhi 

bited  in  an  immemorial  National  Festivity. — Characters  to  be 
commemorated  in  the  History  introduced  and  graphically  por- 
trayed, with  a  nasological  illustration.  —  Original  suggestions  as 
to  the  idiosynacracies  engendered  by  trades  and  callings,  with 
other  matters  worthy  of  note,  conveyed  in  artless  dialogue,  after 
the  manner  of  Hero  lotus.  Father  of  History  (Mother  unknown). 

\^^    It  was  a  summer  Fair  in  one  of  the  prettiest  villages 

^     in  Surrey.  The  main  street  was  lined  with  booths  abound- 

t^     ing  in  toys,  gleaming  crockery,  gay  ribbons,  and  gilded 

^     gingerbread.     Farther  on,  where  the  street  widened  into 

^     the  ample  village-green,  rose  the  more  pretending  fabrics 

which  lodged  the  attractive  forms  of  the  Mermaid,  the 

'..     Norfolk  Giant,  the  Pig-faced  Lady,  the  Spotted  Boy,  and 

^    the  Calf  with  Two  Heads ;  while  high  over  even  these 

4,     edifices,  and  occupying  the    most  conspicuous  vantage- 

1*  (5j 


6  WHAT    WILL    HE    TO    WITH    IT? 

ground,  a  lofty  stage  promised  to  rural  play-goers  the 
"Grand  Melodramatic  Performance  of  The  Remorseless 
Baron  and  the  Bandit's  Child."  Music,  lively  if  artless, 
resounded  on  every  side  ;  drums,  fifes,  penny-whistles,  cat- 
calls, and  a  hand-organ  played  by  a  dark  foreigner  from 
the  height  of  whose  shoulder  a  cynical  but  observant 
monkey  eyed  the  hubbub  and  cracked  his  nuts. 

It  was  now  sunset  —  the  throng  at  the  fullest  —  an  ani- 
mated, joyous  scene.  The  day  had  been  sultry  ;  no  clouds 
were  to  be  seen,  except  low  on  the  western  horizon,  where 
they  stretched,  in  lengthened  ridges  of  gold  and  purple, 
like  the  border-land  between  earth  and  sky.  The  tall 
elms  on  the  green  were  still,  save,  near  the  great  stage, 
one  or  two,  upon  which  young  urchins  had  climbed  ;  and 
their  laughing  faces  peered  forth,  here  and  there,  from  the 
foliage  trembling  under  their  restless  movements. 

Amidst  the  crowd,  as  it  streamed  saunteriugly  along, 
were  two  spectators  —  strangers  to  the  place,  as  wag 
notably  proved  by  the  attention  they  excited,  and  the 
broad  jokes  their  dress  and  appearance  provoked  from 
the  rustic  wits — jokes  which  they  took  with  amused  good- 
humor,  and  sometimes  retaliated  with  a  zest  which  had 
already  made  them  very  popular  personage ;  indeed, 
there  was  that  about  them  which  propitiated  liking. 
They  were  young,  and  the  freshness  of  enjoyment  was  so 
visible  in  their  faces  that  it  begot  a  sympathy,  and  where- 
ever  they  went  other  faces  brightened  round  them. 

One  of  the  two  whom  we  have  thus  individualized  was 
of  that  enviable    age,  ranging  from  five-and-twenty  to 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  7 

seven-and-twenty,  in  which,  if  a  man  cannot  contrive  to 
make  life  very  pleasant  —  pitiable,  indeed,  must  be  the 
state  of  his  digestive  organs.  But  you  might  see  by  this 
gentleman's  countenance,  that  if  there  were  many  like  him, 
it  would  be  a  worse  world  for  the  doctors.  His  cheek, 
though  not  highly-colored,.,^was  yet  ruddy  and  clear ;  his 
hazel  eyes  were  lively  and  keen ;  his  hair,  which  escaped 
in  loose  clusters  from  a  jean  shooting-cap  set  jauntily  on 
a  well-shaped  head,  was  of  that  deep  sunny  auburn  rarely 
seen  but  in  persons  of  vigorous  and  hardy  temperament. 
He  was  good-looking  on  the  whole,  and  would  have  de- 
served the  more  flattering  epithet  of  handsome,  but  for 
his  nose,  which  was  what  the  French  call  "  a  nose  in  the 
air"  —  not  a  nose  supercilious,  not  a  nose  provocative, 
as  such  noses  mostly  are,  but  a  nose  decidedly  in  earnest 
to  make  the  best  of  itself  and  of  things  in  general  —  a 
nose  that  would  push  its  way  up  in  life,  but  so  pleasantly 
that  the  most  irritable  fingers  would  never  itch  to  lay 
hold  of  it.  With  such  a  nose  a  man  might  play  the  vio- 
loncello, marry  for  love,  or  even  write  poetry,  and  yet 
not  go  to  the  dogs.  Never  would  he  stick  in  the  mud  so 
long  as  he  followed  that  nose  in  the  air  I 

By  the  help  of  that  nose  this  gentleman  wore  a  black 
velveteen  jacket  of  foreign  cut ;  a  mustache  and  imperial 
(then  much  rarer  in  England  than  they  have  been  since 
the  siege  of  Sebastopol)  ;  and  yet  left  you  perfectly  con- 
vinced that  he  was  an  honest  Englishman,  who  had  not 
only  no  designs  on  your  pocket,  but  would  not  be  easily 
dup3d  by  any  designs  upon  his  own. 


8  -WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

The  companion  of  the  personage  thus  sketched  might 
be  somewhere  about  seventeen  ;  but  his  gait,  his  air,  his 
lithe,  vigorous  frame,  showed  a  manliness  at  variance 
with  the  boyish  bloom  of  his  face.  He  struck  the  eye 
much  more  than  his  elder  comrade.  Not  that  he  was 
regularly  handsome  —  far  from  it;  yet  it  is  no  paradox 
to  say  that  he  was  beautiful —  at  least,  few  indeed  were 
the  women  who  would  not  have  called  him  so.  His  hair, 
long  like  his  friend's,  was  of  a  dark  chestnut,  with  gold 
gleaming  through  it  where  the  sun  fell,  inclining  to  curl, 
and  singularly  soft  and  silken  in  its  texture.  His  large 
clear,  dark-blue,  happy  eyes  were  fringed  with  long  ebon 
lashes,  and  set  under  brows  which  already  wore  the  ex- 
pression of  intellectual  power,  and,  better  still,  of  frank  cou- 
rage and  open  loyalty.  His  complexion  was  fair,  and  some- 
what pale,  and  his  lips  in  laughing  showed  teeth  exqui- 
sitely white  and  even.  But  though  his  profile  was  clearly 
cut,  it  was  far  from  the  Greek  ideal ;  and  he  wanted  the 
height  of  stature  which  is  usually  considered  essential  to 
the  personal  pretensions  of  the  male  sex.  Without  being 
positively  short,  he  was  still  under  middle  height,  and, 
from  the  compact  development  of  his  proportions, 
seemed  already  to  have  attained  his  full  growth  His 
dress,  though  not  foreign,  like  his  comrade's,  was  pecu- 
liar ;  a  broad-brimmed  straw-hat,  with  a  wide  blue  rib- 
bon ;  shirt  collar  turned  dovrn,  leaving  the  throat  bare  ; 
a  dark-green  jacket  of  thinner  material  than  cloth;  white 
trowsers  and  waistcoat  completed  his  costume.  He 
looked  like  a  mother's  darling  —  perhaps  he  was  one. 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  9 

Scratch  across  his  back  went  one  of  those  ingenious 
mechanical  contrivances  familiarly  in  vogue  at  fairs,  which 
are  designed  to  impress  upon  the  victim  to  whom  they  are 
applied  the  pleasing  conviction  that  his  garment  is  rent 
in  twain. 

The  boy  turned  round  so  quickly  that  he  caught  the 
arm  of  the  oifender  —  a  pretty  village-girl,  a  year  or  two 
younger  than  himself.  **  Found  in  the  act,  sentenced, 
punished,"  cried  he,  snatching  a  kiss,  and  receiving  a  gen 
tie  slap.  "  And  now,  good  for  evil,  here's  a  ribbon  for 
you  —  choose." 

The  girl  slunk  back  shyly,  but  her  companions  pushed 
her  forward,  and  she  ended  by  selecting  a  cherry-colored 
ribbon,  for  which  the  boy  paid  carelessly,  while  his  elder 
and  wiser  friend  looked  at  him  with  grave,  compassionate 
rebuke,  and  grumbled  out  —  "Dr.  Franklin  tells  us  that 
once  in  his  life  he  paid  too  dear  for  a  whistle  ;  but  then, 
he  was  only  seven  years  old,  and  a  whistle  has  its  uses. 
But  to  pay  such  a  price  for  a  scratchback  I  Prodigal  I 
Come  along!" 

As  the  friends  strolled  on,  naturally  en-ough  all  the 
young  girls  who  wished  for  ribbons,  and  were  possessed 
of  scratchbacks,  followed  in  their  wake.  Scratch  went 
the  instruments,  but  in  vain. 

"liasses,"  said  the  elder,  turning  sharply  upon  them, 
his  nose  in  the  air,  "  ribbons  are  plentiful — shillings  scarce  ; 
and  kisses,  though  pleasant  in  private,  are  insipid  in  pub- 
lic. What,  still  I  Beware  I  know  that,  innocent  as  we 
see^i,  we  are  woman-eaters ;  and  if  you  follow  us  farther, 


10  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    TVITH    IT? 

you  are  devoured  ! "  So  saying,  he  expanded  his  jaws  to 
a  width  so  preternaturally  large,  and  exhibited  a  row  of 
grinders  so  formidable,  that  the  girls  fell  back  in  conster- 
nation. The  friends  turned  down  a  narrow  alley  between 
the  booths,  and  though  still  pursued  by  some  adventurous 
and  mercenary  spirits,  were  comparatively  undisturbed  as 
they  threaded  their  way  along  the  back  of  the  booths,  and 
arrived  at  last  on  the  village-green,  and  in  front  of  the 
Great  Stage. 

"  Oho,  Lionel  ?"  quoth  the  elder  friend ;  "  Thespian  and 
classical  —  worth  seeing,  no  doubt."  Then,  turning  to  a 
grave  cobbler  in  leathern  apron,  who  was  regarding  the 
dramatis  person ce  ranged  in  front  of  the  curtain  with  sat- 
urnine interest,  he  said,  "  You  seem  attracted,  Sir ;  you 
have  probably  already  witnessed  the  performance." 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  Cobbler  ;  "  this  is  the  third  day, 
and  to-morrow  is  the  last.  I  arn't  missed  once  yet,  and 
I  shan't  miss;  but  it  arn't  what  it  was  awhile  back." 

"  That  is  sad  ;  but  then  the  same  thing  is  said  of  every 
thing  by  every  body  who  has  reached  your  respectable 
age,  friend.  Summers  and  suns,  stupid  old  watering- 
places,  and  pretty  young  women  '  arn't  what  they  were  a 
while  back.'  If  men  and  things  go  on  degenerating  in  this 
^SiJ,  our  grandchildren  will  have  a  dull  time  of  it  I" 

The  Cobbler  eyed  the  young  man,  and  nodded,  ap- 
provingly. He  had  sense  enough  to  comprehend  the 
ironical  philosophy  of  the  reply  —  and  cur  Cobbler  loved 
talk  out  of  the  common  way.  "  You  speaks  truly  and 
cleverly,  Sir.     But  if  old  folks  do  always  say  that  things 


WHAT    -^ILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  11 

tnrH  worse  than  they  were,  ben't  there  always  summat  in 
what  is  always  said  ?  I'm  for  the  old  times  ;  my  ueigh- 
bor,  Joe  Spruce,  is  for  the  new,  and  says  we  are  all  a- 
progressing.     But  he's  a  pink  —  I'm  a  blue." 

"  You  are  a  blue  I "  said  the  boy  Lionel  —  "I  don'* 
understand." 

"  Young  'un,  I'm  a  Tory  —  that's  blue  ;  and  Spruce  is 
a  Rad  —  that's  pink  !  And,  what  is  more  to  the  purpose, 
he  is  a  tailor,  and  I'm  a  cobbler." 

"  Aha  I"  said  the  elder,  with  much  interest ;  "  more  to 
the  purpose,  is  it  ?     How  so  ?" 

The  Cobbler  put  the  forefinger  of  the  right  hand  on 
the  forefinger  of  the  left ;  it  is  the  gesture  of  a  man 
about  to  ratiocinate  or  demonstrate — as  Quintilian,  in 
his  remark  on  the  oratory  of  fingers,  probably  observes ; 
or,  if  he  has  failed  to  do  so,  it  is  a  blot  on  his  essay. 

"You  see.  Sir,"  quoth  the  Cobbler,  "that  a  man's 
business  has  a  deal  to  do  with  his  manner  of  thinking. 
Every  trade,  I  take  it,  has  ideas  as  belong  to  it. 
Butchers  don't  see  life  as  bakers  do  ;  and  if  you  talk  to 
a  dozen  tallow-chandlers,  then  to  a  dozen  blacksmiths, 
you  will  see  tallow-chandlers  are  peculiar,  and  black- 
smiths, too." 

•'You  are  a  keen  observer,"  said  he  of  the  jean  cap, 
admiringly  ;  "  your  remark  is  new  to  me  ;  I  dare  say  it  is 
true." 

"  Course  it  is  ;  and  the  stars  have  summat  to  do  with 
it :  for  if  they  order  a  man's  calling,  it  stands  to  reason 
that  they  order  a  man's  mind  to  fit  it.    Now,  a  tailor  sits 


12  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

on  his  board  with  others,  and  is  always  a-talking  with 
'em,  and  a-reading  the  news  ;  therefore  he  thinks,  as  his 
fellows  do,  smart  and  sharp,  bang  up  to  the  day,  but 
nothing  'riginal  and  all  his  own  like.  But  a  cobbler," 
continued  the  man  of  leather,  with  a  majestic  air,  "sits  by 
hisself,  and  talks  with  hisself ;  and  what  he  thinks  gets  in- 
to his  head  without  being  put  there  by  another  man's 
tongue." 

"You  enlighten  me  more  and  more,"  said  our  friend 
with  the  nose  in  the  air,  bowing  respectfully.  "A  tailor 
is  gregarious,  a  cobbler  solitary.  The  gregarious  go  with 
the  future,  the  solitary  stick  by  the  past.  I  understand 
why  you  are  a  Tory,  and  perhaps  a  poet." 

"Well,  a  bit  of  one,"  said  the  Cobbler,  with  an  iron 
smile.  "And  many's  the  cobbler  who  is  a  poet  —  or 
discovers  marvellous  things  in  a  crystal  —  whereas  a  tailor, 
Sir"  (spoken  with  great  contempt),  "  only  see  the  upper- 
leather  of  the  world's  sole  in  a  newspaper." 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  a  sudden 
pressure  of  the  crowd  toward  the  theatre  ;  the  two  young 
friends  looked  up,  and  saw  that  the  new  object  of  at- 
traction was  a  little  girl,  who  seemed  scarcely  ten  years 
old,  though  in  truth  she  was  about  two  years  older.  She 
had  just  emerged  from  behind  the  curtain,  made  her 
obeisance  to  the  crowd,  and  was  now  walking  in  front  of 
the  stage  with  the  prettiest  possible  air  of  infantine  so- 
lemnity. "  Poor  little  thing  !  "  said  Lionel.  "  Poor  little 
thing  1 "  said  the  Cobbler.  And  had  you  been  there,  my 
reader,  ten  to  one  but  you  would  have  said  the  same-    And 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  13 

yet  she  was  attired  in  white  satin,  with  spangled  flounce 
and  a  tinsel  jacket ;  and  she  wore  a  wreath  of  flowers  (to 
be  sure,  the  flowers  were  not  real)  on  her  long  fair  curls, 
with  gaudy  bracelets  (to  be  sure,  the  stones  were  mock) 
on  her  slender  arms.  Still  there  was  something  in  her 
that  all  this  finery  could  not  vulgarize  ;  and  since  it  could 
not  vulgarize,  you  pitied  her  for  it.  She  had  one  of  those 
charming  faces  that  look  straight  into  the  hearts  of  us  all, 
young  and  old.  And  though  she  seemed  quite  self-pos- 
sessed, there  was  no  efi'rontery  in  her  air,  but  the  ease  of 
a  little  lady,  with  the  simple  unconsciousness  of  a  child 
that  there  was  anything  in  her  situation  to  induce  you  to 
s^gh,   "  Poor  thing  !  " 

"You  should  see  her  act,  young  gents,"  said  the  Cob- 
bler. "  She  plays  uncommon.  But  if  you  had  seen  him 
".s  taught  her  —  seen  him  a  year  ago." 

"  Who's  that  ?  " 

"Waife,  Sir.  Mayhap  you  have  heard  speak  of 
^aife  ?  " 

"I  blush  to  say,  no." 

"Why,  he  might  have  made  his  fortune  at  Common 
Garden  ;  but  that's  a  long  story.  Poor  fellow  I  he's  broke 
down  now,  anyhow.  But  she  takes  care  of  him,  little 
darling  —  God  bless  thee  !"  And  the  Cobbler  here  ex- 
changed a  smile  and  nod  with  the  little  girl,  whose  face 
brightened  when  she  saw  him  amidst  the  crowd. 

"  By  the  brush  and  pallet  of  Raifaeile,"  cried  the  elder 
of  the  young  men,  "  before  I  am  many  hours  older  I  must 
have  that  child's  head  ! " 

I.— 2 


14  WHAT     WILL    HE     DO     WITH    IT? 

*'  Her  head,  man  ! "  cried  the  Cobbler,  aghast. 

"In  my  sketch-book.  You  are  a  poet  —  I  a  painter 
You  know  the  little  girl  ?  " 

"  Don't  I !  She  and  her  grandfather  lodge  with  me — . 
her  grandfather  —  that's  Waife  —  marbellous  man  !  But 
chey  ill-uses  him ;  and  if  it  wasn't  for  her,  he'd  starve. 
He  fed  them  all  once  ;  he  can  feed  them  no  longer — he'd 
starve.  That's  the  world  ;  they  use  up  a  genus,  and  when 
it  falls  on  the  road,  push  on  ;  that's  what  Joe  Spruce  calls 
a-progressing.  But  there's  the  drum  !  they're  a-going  to 
act.     Won't  you  look  in,  gents?" 

"  Of  course,"  cried  Lionel,  "  of  course.  And,  hark  ye, 
Yance,  we'll  toss  up  which  shall  be  the  first  to  take  thai 
little  girl's  head." 

"  Murderer  in  either  sense  of  the  word  !  "  said  Yance, 
with  a  smile  that  would  have  become  Correggio  if  a  tyro 
had  offered  to  toss  up  which  should  be  the  first  to  paint  9 
cherub 


CHAPTER   II. 

The  Historian  takes  a  view  of  the  British  Stage  as  represented  by 
the  Irregular  Drama,  the  Regular  having  (ere  the  date  of  the 
events  to  which  this  narrative  is  restricted)  disappeared  from  the 
Vestiges  of  Creation. 

They  entered  the  little  theatre,  and  the  Cobbler  with 
them ;  but  the  last  retired  modestly  to  the  threepenny 
row.     The  young  gentlemen  were  favored  with  reserved 


WHAT     WILL    HE     DO     WITH    IT?  15 

seats,  price  one  shilling.  "  Very  dear,"  murmured  Yance, 
as  he  carefully  buttoned  the  pocket  to  which  he  restored 
a  purse  woven  from  links  of  steel,  after  the  fashion  of 
chain  mail.  Ah,  3Iessieurs  and  Confreres,  the  dramatic 
authors,  do  not  flatter  yourselves  that  we  are  about  .o 
give  you  a  complacent  triumph  over  the  Grand  Melo- 
drame  of  "  The  Remorseless  Baron  and  the  Bandit's 
Child."  We  grant  it  was  horrible  rubbish,  regarded  in 
an  assthetic  point  of  view,  but  it  was  mightily  effective  in 
the  theatrical.  Nobody  yawned  ;  you  did  not  even  hear 
a  cough,  nor  the  cry  of  that  omnipresent  baby  who  is 
always  sure  to  set  up  a  Vagitus  ingens,  or  unappeasable 
wail,  in  the  midmost  interest  of  a  classical  five-act  piece, 
represented  for  the  first  time  on  the  metropolitan  boards. 
Here  the  story  rushed  on  per  fas  aut  riefas,  and  the  au- 
dience went  with  it.  Certes,  some  man  who  understood 
the  stage  must  have  put  the  incidents  together,  and  then 
left  it  to  each  illiterate  histrio  to  find  the  words  —  words, 
my  dear  confreres,  signify  so  little  in  an  acting  play. 
The  movement  is  the  thing.  Grand  secret !  Analyze, 
practice  it,  and  restore  to  grateful  stars  that  lost  Pleiad, 
the  British  Acting  Drama. 

Of  course  the  Bandit  was  an  ill-used  and  most  estimable 
man.  He  had  some  mysterious  rights  to  the  Estate  and 
Castle  of  the  Remorseless  Baron.  That  titled  usurper, 
therefore,  did  all  in  his  power  to  hunt  the  Bandit  out  in 
his  fastnesses,  and  bring  him  to  a  bloody  end.  Here  the 
interest  centred  itself  in  the  Bandit's  child,  who,  we  need 
not  say,  was  the  little  girl  in  the  wreath  and  spangles, 


16  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

styied  in  the  playbill  "  Miss  Juliet  Araminta  Waife ;  "  and 
the  incidents  consisted  in  her  various  devices  to  foil  the 
pursuit  of  the  Baron  and  save  her  father.     Some  of  these 
incidents  were  indebted  to  the  Comic  Muse,  and  kept  the 
audience  in  a  broad  laugh.     Her  arch  playfulness  here 
was  requisite.     With  what  vivacity  she  duped  the  High 
Sheriff,  who  had  the  commands  of  his  king  to  take  the 
Bandit  alive  or  dead,  into  the  belief  that  the  very  Lawyer 
employed  by  the  Baron  was  the  criminal  in  disguise,  and 
what  pearly  teeth  she  showed  when  the  lawyer  was  seized 
and  gagged ;  how  dexterously  she  ascertained  the  weak 
point  in  the  character  of  the  "  King's  Lieutenant"  {jeuni 
premier),  who  was  deputed  by  his  royal  master  to  aid 
the  Kemorseless  Baron  in  trouncing  the  Bandit ;  how 
cunningly  she  learned  that  he  was  in  love  with  the  Baron's 
ward  (jeune  amo7^euse),  whom  that  unworthy  noble  in- 
tended to  force  into  a  marriage  with  himself  on  account 
of  her  fortune  ;  how  prettily  she  passed  notes  to  and  fro, 
the  Lieutenant  never  suspecting  that  she  was  the  Bandit's 
child,  and  at  last  got  the  King's  soldier  on  her  side,  as 
the  event  proved.     And  oh  how  gayly,  and  with  what 
mimic  art,  she  stole  into  the  Baron's  castle,  disguised  her- 
self as  a  witch,  startled  his  conscience  with  revelations 
and  predictions,  frightened  all  the  vassals  with  blue  lights 
and  chemical  illusions,  and  venturing  even  into  the  usur- 
per's own  private  chamber  while  that  tyrant  was  tossing 
restless  on  the  couch,  over  which  hung  his  terrible  sword, 
abstrated  from  his  coffer  the  deeds  that  proved  the  better 
rights  of  the  persecuted  Bandit.     Then,  when  he  woke 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  H 

before  she  could  escape  with  her  treasure,  and  pursued 
her  with  his  sword,  with  what  glee  she  apparently  set  her- 
self on  fire,  and  skipped  out  of  the  casement  in  an  explo- 
sion of  crackers.  And  when  the  drama  approached  its 
denouement,  when  the  Baron's  men,  and  the  royal  officers 
of  justice,  had,  despite  all  her  arts,  tracked  the  Bandit  to 
the  cave,  in  which,  after  various  retreats,  he  lay  hidden, 
wounded  by  shots,  and  bruised  by  a  fall  from  a  precipice 

—  with  what  admirable  by-play  she  hovered  around  the 
spot,  with  what  pathos  she  sought  to  decoy  away  the 
pursuers  —  it  was  the  sky-lark  playing  round  the  nest. 
And  when  all  was  vain  —  when,  no  longer  to  be  deceived, 
the  enemies  sought  to  seize  her,  how  mockingly  she 
eluded  them,  bounded  up  the  rock,  and  shook  her  slight 
finger  at  them  in  scorn.  Surely  she  will  save  that  esti- 
mable Bandit  still  I  Now,  hitherto,  though  the  Bandit 
was  the  nominal  hero  of  the  piece,  though  you  were  always 
hearing  of  him  —  his  wrongs,  virtues,  hair-breadth  escapes 

—  he  had  never  been  seen.  Not  Mrs.  Harris,  in-  the  im- 
mortal narrative,  was  more  quoted  and  more  mythical. 
But  in  the  last  scene  there  was  the  Bandit,  there  in  his 
cavern,  helpless  with  bruises  and  wounds,  lying  on  a  rock. 
In  rushed  the  enennies,  Baron,  High  Sheriff,  and  all,  to 
seize  him.  Not  a  word  spoke  the  Bandit,  but  his  attitude 
was  sublime  —  even  Vance  cried  "  Bravo  ;  "  and  just  as 
he  is  seized,  halter  round  his  neck,  and  about  to  be 
hanged,  down  from  the  chasm  above  leaps  his  child,  hold- 
ing the  title-deeds,  filched  from  the  Baron,  and  by  her  side 
the  King's  Lieutenant,  who  proclaims  the  Bandit's  pardon, 

2*  B 


18  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

with  due  restoration  to  his  honors  and  estates,  and  con- 
signs,  to  the  astounded  Sheriff,  the  august  person  of  the 
Remorseless  Baron.  Then  the  affecting  scene,  father  and 
child  in  each  other's  arms ;  and  then  an  exclamation, 
which  had  been  long  hovering  about  the  lips  of  manj  of 
the  audience,  broke  out,  "  Waife,  Waife  I "  Yes,  the 
Bandit,  who  appeared  but  in  the  last  scene,  and  even  then 
uttered  not  a  word,  was  the  once  great  actor  on  that 
itinerant  Thespian  stage,  known  through  many  a  Fair  for 
his  exuberant  humor,  his  impromptu  jokes,  his  arch  eye, 
his  redundant  life  of  drollery,  and  the  strange  pathos  or 
dignity  with  which  he  could  suddenly  exalt  a  jester's  part, 
and  call  forth  tears  in  the  startled  hush  of  laughter ;  he 
whom  the  Cobbler  had  rightly  said,  "  might  have  made  a 
fortune  at  Covent  Garden."  There  was  the  remnant  of 
the  old  popular  mime  !  —  all  his  attributes  of  eloquence 
reduced  to  dumb  show  I  Masterly  touch  of  nature  and 
of  art  in  this  representation  of  him  —  touch  which  all,  who 
had  ever  in  former  years  seen  and  heard  him  on  that  stage, 
felt  simultaneously.  He  came  in  for  his  personal  portion 
<jf  dramatic  tears.  "  Waife,  Waife ! "  cried  many  a 
village  voice,  as  the  little  girl  led  him  to  the  front  of  the 
stage.  He  hobbled  ;  there  was  a  bandage  round  his  eyes. 
The  plot,  in  describing  the  accident  that  had  befallen  the 
Bandit,  idealized  the  genuine  infirmities  of  the  man  —  in- 
firmities that  had  befallen  him  since  last  seen  in  that 
village.  He  was  blind  of  one  eye ;  he  had  become 
crippled ;  some  malady  of  the  trachea  or  larynx  had 
seemingly  broken  up   the   once  joyous  key  of  the   old 


WHAT    WILL    nE    DO    WITH    IT?  19 

pleasant  voice.  He  did  not  trust  himself  to  speak,  even 
on  that  stage,  but  silently  bent  his  head  to  the  rustic 
audience ;  and  Yance,  who  was  an  habitual  play-goer,  saw 
in  that  simple  salutation  that  the  man  was  an  artistic 
actor.  All  was  over,  the  audience  streamed  out  affected, 
and  talking  one  to  the  other.  It  had  not  been  at  all  like 
the  ordinary  stage-exhibitions  at  a  village  Fair.  Yance 
and  Lionel  stared  at  each  other  in  surprise,  and  then,  by 
a  common  impulse,  moved  toward  the  stage,  pushed  aside 
the  curtain,  which  had  fallen,  and  were  in  that  strange 
world  which  has  so  many  reduplications,  fragments  of  one 
broken  mirror,  whether  in  the  proudest  theatre,  or  the 
lowhest  barn  —  nay,  whether  in  the  palace  of  kings,  the 
cabinet  of  statesmen,  the  home  of  domestic  life  —  the 
world  we  call  "Behind  the  Scenes." 


CHAPTER  III. 

Striking  illustrations  of  lawless  tyranny  and  infant  avarice  ex- 
emplified in  the  social  conditions  of  Great  Britain.  —  Supersti- 
tions of  the  Dark  Ages  still  in  force  among  the  Trading  Com- 
munity, furnishing  valuable  hints  to  certain  American  journalists, 
and  highly  suggestive  of  reflections  humiliating  to  the  national 
vanity. 

The  Remorseless  Baron,  who  was  no  other  than  the 
managerial  proprietor  of  the  stage,  was  leaning  against  a 
side-scene,  with  a  pot  of  porter  in  his  hand.  The  King's 
Lieutenant  might  be  seen  on  the  background,  toasting  a 


20  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

piece  of  cheCvSe  on  the  point  of  his  loyal  sword.  The 
Bandit  had  crept  into  a  corner,  and  the  little  girl  was 
clinging  to  him  fondly,  as  his  hand  was  stroking  her  fair 
hair.  Yance  looked  round,  and  approached  the  Bandit 
—  "  Sir,  allow  me  to  congratulate  you ;  your  bow  was 
admirable.  I  have  never  seen  John  Kemble  —  before  my 
time  ;  but  I  shall  fancy  I  have  seen  him  now  —  seen  him 
on  the  night  of  his  retirement  from  the  stage.  As  to 
your  grandchild,  Miss  Juliet  Araminta,  she  is  a  perfect 
chrysolite." 

Before  Mr.  Waife  could  reply,  the  Remorseless  Baron 
stepped  up  in  a  spirit  worthy  of  his  odious  and  arbitrary 
character.  "  What  do  you  do  here,  Sir  ?  I  allow  no 
gents  behind  the  scenes  earwigging  my  people." 

"  I  beg  pardon  respectfully  :  I  am  an  artist  —  a  pupil 
of  the  Royal  Academy ;  I  should  like  to  make  a  sketch 
of  Miss  Juliet  Araminta." 

"Sketch!  nonsense." 

"  Sir,"  said  Lionel,  with  the  seasonable  extravagance 
of  early  youth,  "  my  friend  would,  I  am  sure,  pay  for  the 
sitting  —  handsomely  1 " 

"  Ha  ! "  said  the  manager,  softened,  "  you  speak  like  a 
gentleman,  Sir;  but.  Sir,  Miss  Juliet  Araminta  is  under 
my  protection  —  in  fact,  she  is  my  property.  Call  and 
speak  to  me  about  it  to-morrow,  before  the  first  perform- 
ance  begins,  which  is  twelve  o'clock.  Happy  to  see  any 
of  your  friends  in  the  reserved  seats.  Busy  now,  and  — 
and — in  short— excuse  me- -servant.  Sir — servant,  Sir  " 

The  Baron's  manner  left  no  room  for  further  parley. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  21 

Vance  bowed,  smiled,  and  retreated.  But,  meanwhile, 
his  young  friend  had  seized  the  opportunity  to  speak  both 
to  Waife  and  his  grandchild  ;  and  when  Yance  took  his 
arm  and  drew  him  away,  there  was  a  puzzled,  musing  ex- 
pression on  Lionel's  face,  and  he  remained  silent  till  they 
Had  got  through  the  press  of  such  stragglers  as  still 
loitered  before  the  stage,  and  were  in  a  quiet  corner  of 
the  sward.  Stars  and  moon  were  then  up  —  a  lovely 
summer  night. 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  thinking  of,  Lionel  ?  I  have 
put  to  you  three  questions,  and  you  have  not  answered 
one." 

"  Yance,"  answered  Lionel,  slowly,  "  the  oddest  thing  I 
I  am  so  disappointed  in  that  little  girl — greedy  and  mer- 
cenary !  " 

"  Precocious  villain  I  how  do  you  know  that  she  is 
greedy  and  mercenary  ?  " 

"  Listen  :  when  that  surly  old  manager  came  up  to 
you,  I  said  something  —  civil,  of  course — to  Waife,  who 
answered  in  a  hoarse,  broken  voice,  but  in  very  good 
language.  Well,  when  I  told  the  manager  that  you 
would  pay  for  the  sitting,  the  child  caught  hold  of  my 
arm  hastily,  pulled  me  down  to  her  own  height,  and  whis- 
pered, '  How  much  will  he  give  ? '  Confused  by  a  ques- 
tion so  point-blank,  I  answered  at  random,  '  I  don't 
know;  ten  shillings,  perhaps.'  You  should  have  seen 
her  face  ! " 

"  Seen  her  face !  radiant,  I  should  think  so.  Too 
much  by  half  !  "  exclaimed  Yance.  "  Ten  shillings  I 
spendthrift  1 " 


22  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

'"loo  much  I  she  looked  as  you  might  look  if  one 
ofifered  you  ten  shillings  for  your  picture  of  '  Julius  Caesar 
considering  whether  he  should  cross  the  Rubicon.'  But 
when  the  manager  had  declared  her  to  be  his  property, 
and  appointed  you  to  call  to-morrow  —  implying  that  he 
was  to  be  paid  for  allowing  her  to  sit  —  her  countenance 
became  overcast,  and  she  muttered,  sullenly,  '  I'll  not  sit ; 
I'll  not ! '  Then  she  turned  to  her  grandfather,  and  some- 
thing very  quick  and  close  was  whispered  between  the 
two  ;  and  she  pulled  me  by  the  sleeve,  and  said  in  my  ear 
— oh,  but  so  eagerly  ! — *  I  want  three  pounds ;  oh,  three 
pounds  I  if  he  would  give  three  pounds  !  And  come  to 
our  lodgings — Mr.  Merle,  Willow  Lane.  Three  pounds 
— three  I '  And  with  those  words  hissing  in  my  ear,  and 
coming  from  that  fairy  mouth,  which  ought  to  drop  pearls 
and  diamonds,  I  left  her,"  added  Lionel,  as  gravely  as  if 
he  were  sixty,  "and  lost  an  illusion." 

"  Three  pounds  1 "  cried  Yance,  raising  his  eyebrows 
to  the  highest  arch  of  astonishment,  and  lifting  his  nose 
in  the  air  toward  the  majestic  moon  —  "three  pounds  !  a 
fabulous  sum  1  Who  has  three  pounds  to  throw  away  ? 
Dukes,  with  a  hundred  thousand  a  year  in  acres,  have  not 
three  pounds  to  draw  out  of  their  pockets  in  that  reck- 
less, profligate  manner.  Three  pounds  !  what  could  I 
not  buy  for  three  pounds  ?  I  could  buy  the  Dramatic 
Library,  bound  in  calf,  for  three  pounds  ;  I  could  buy  a 
dress-coat  for  three  pounds  (silk  lining  not  included)  ;  I 
could  be  lodged  for  a  month  for  three  pounds  I  And  a 
jade  in  tinsel,  just  entering  on  her  teens,  to  ask  tl\ree 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  23 

poands  for  wliat  ?  for  becoming  immortal  on  the  canvas 
of  Francis  Yance  ?  bother  I" 

Here  Yance  felt  a  touch  on  his  shoulder.  He  turned 
round  quickly,  as  a  man  out  of  temper  does  under  similar 
circumstances,  and  beheld  the  swart  face  of  the  Cobbler 

"Well,  master,  did  not  she  act  fine?  —  how  d'ye  like 
her  ?  " 

"  Not  much  in  her  natural  character ;  but  she  sets  a 
mighty  high  value  on  herself." 

"Anan,  I  don't  take  you." 

"  She'll  not  catch  me  taking  her  I  Three  pounds  I  — 
three  kingdoms." 

'Stay,"  cried  Lionel  to  the  Cobbler;  "did  not  yon 
say  she  lodged  with  you  ?     Are  you  Mr.  Merle  ?  " 

"  Merle's  my  name,  and  she  do  lodge  with  me — Willow 
Lane." 

"  Come  this  way,  then,  a  few  yards  down  the  road  — • 
more  quiet.  Tell  me  w^hat  the  child  means,  if  you  can  ?" 
and  Lionel  related  the  offer  of  his  friend,  the  reply  of 
the  manager,  and  the  grasping  avarice  of  Miss  Juliet 
Araminta. 

The  Cobbler  made  no  answer ;  and  when  the  young 
friends,  surprised  at  his  silence,  turned  to  look  at  him, 
they  saw  he  was  wiping  his  eyes  with  his  sleeve. 

"  Poor  little  thing  I "  he  said  at  last,  and  still  more 
pathetically  than  he  had  uttered  the  same  words  at  her 
appearance  in  front  of  the  stage  ;  "  'tis  all  for  her  grand- 
father, I  guess  —  I  guess." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Lionel,  joyfully,  "  I  am  so  glad  to  think 
that.     It  alters  the  whole  case,  you  see,  Yance." 


24  WHAT     WILL    HE     DO     WITH    IT  f 

"  It  don't  alter  tlie  case  of  the  three  pounds,"  grumbled 
Vance.  "  What's  her  grandfather  to  me,  that  I  should 
give  his  grandchild  three  pounds,  when  any  other  child 
in  the  village  would  have  leaped  out  of  her  skin  to  have 
her  face  upon  my  sketch-book  and  five  shillings  in  her 
pocket.     Hang  her  grandfather  !  " 

They  were  now  in  the  main  road.  The  Cobbler  seated 
himself  on  a  lonely  milestone,  and  looked  first  at  one  of 
the  faces  before  him,  then  at  the  other ;  that  of  Lionel 
seemed  to  attract  him  the  most,  and  in  speaking  it  was 
Lionel  whom  he  addressed. 

"  Young  master,"  he  said,  "  it  is  now  just  four  years 
ago  when  Mr.  Rugge,  coming  here,  as  he  and  his  troop 
had  done  at  Fair-time  ever  sin'  I  can  mind  of,  brought 
with  him  the  man  you  have  seen  to-night,  William  Waife  ; 
I  calls  him  Gentleman  Waife.  However  that  man  fell 
into  such  straits  —  how  he  came  to  join  such  a  carawan 
would  puzzle  most  heads.  It  puzzles  Joe  Spruce  un- 
common;  it  don't  puzzle  me." 

"Why?"  asked  Yance. 

"  Cos  of  Saturn  I  " 

"Satan?" 

"  Saturn— dead  agin  his  Second  and  Tenth  House,  I'll 
swear.  Lord  of  ascendant,  mayhap  in  combustion  of  the 
sun  —  who  knows?" 

"  You're  not  an  astrologer  ?  "  said  Vance,  suspiciously 
edging  ofi^. 

"Bit  of  it  — no  offence." 

"  What  does  it  signify  ? "  said  Lionel,  impatiently  ; 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH*  IT?  25 

"go  on.  So  you  called  Mr.  Waife,  *  Gentleman  Waife  ;' 
and  if  you  had  not  been  an  astrologer  you  would  have 
been  puzzled  to  see  him  in  such  a  calling." 

"Ay,  that's  it ;  for  he  warn't  like  any  as  we  ever  see 
on  these  boards  hereabouts ;  and  yet  he  warn't  exactly 
like  a  Lunnon  actor,  as  I've  seen  'em  in  Lunnon,  either, 
but  more  like  a  clever  fellow  who  acted  for  the  spree  of 
the  thing.  He  had  such  droll  jests,  and  looked  so  comi- 
cal, yet  not  commonlike,  but  always  what  I  calls  a  gen- 
tleman— just  as  if  one  o'  ye  two  were  doing  a  bit  of  sport 
to  please  your  friends.  Well,  he  drew  hugely,  and  so  he 
did,  every  time  he  came,  so  that  the  great  families  in  the 
neighborhood  would  go  to  hear  him  ;  and  he  lodged  iu 
my  house,  and  had  pleasant  ways  with  him,  and  was  what 
I  call  a  scollard.  But  still  I  don't  want  to  deceive  ye, 
and  I  should  judge  him  to  have  been  a  wild  dog  in  his 
day.  Mercury  ill-aspected  —  not  a  doubt  of  it.  Last 
year  it  so  happened  that  one  of  the  great  gents  who  be- 
long to  a  Lunnon  theatre  was  here  at  Fair-time.  Whe- 
ther he  had  heard  of  Waife  chanceways,  and  come  ex- 
press to  judge  for  hisself,  I  can't  say  ;  like  eno'.  And 
when  he  had  seen  Gentleman  Waife  act,  he  sent  for  him 
tc  the  inn — Red  Lion — and  offered  him  a  power  o'  money 
to  go  to  Lunnon  —  Common  Garden.  Well,  Sir,  Waife 
did  not  take  to  it  all  at  once,  but  hemmed  and  hawed, 
and  was  at  last  quite  coaxed  into  it ;  and  so  he  went. 
But  bad  luck  came  on  it ;  and  I  knew  there  would,  for  I 
saw  it  all  in  my  crystal." 

"  Oh  ! "  exclaimed  Yance,  "  a  crystal,  too  ;  really  it  is 
I. —  3 


26  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

getting  late,  and  if  jou  had  your  crystal  about  you,  yon 
might  see  that  we  want  to  sup." 

"  What  happened  ?  "  asked  Lionel,  more  blandly,  fox 
he  saw  the  Cobbler,  who  had  meant  to  make  a  great  efifec* 
by  the  introduction  of  the  crystal,  was  offended. 

"  What  happened  ?  why,  just  what  I  foreseed.  There 
was  an  accident  in  the  railway  'tween  this  and  Lunnon 
and  poor  Waife  lost  an  eye,  and  was  a  cripple  for  life  — 
so  he  could  not  go  on  the  Lunnon  stage  at  all ;  and  what 
was  worse,  he  was  a  long  time  awixt  life  and  death,  and 
got  summat  bad  on  his  chest  wi'  catching  cold,  and  lost 
his  voice,  and  became  the  sad  object  you  have  gazed  on, 
young,  happy  things  that  ye  are." 

"  But  he  got  some  compensation  from  the  railway,  I 
suppose  ?  "  said  Yance,  with  the  unfeeling  equanimity  of 
a  stoical  demon. 

"  He  did,  and  spent  it.  I  suppose  the  gentleman  broke 
out  in  him  as  soon  as  he  had  money,  and  ill  though  he 
was^  the  money  went.  Then  it  seems  he  had  no  help  for 
it  but  to  try  and  get  back  to  Mr.  Rugge.  But  Mr.  Rugge 
was  sore  and  spiteful  at  his  leaving ;  for  Rugge  counted 
on  him,  and  had  even  thought  of  taking  the  huge  theatre 
at  York,  and  bringing  out  Gentleman  Waife  as  his  trump 
card.  But  it  warn't  fated,  and  Rugge  thought  himself 
ill- used,  and  so  at  first  he  would  have  nothing  more  to  say 
to  Waife.  And  truth  is,  what  could  the  poor  man  do  for 
Rugge  ?     But  then  Waife  produces  little  Sophy." 

"  You  mean  Juliet  Araminta  ? "  said  Yance. 

"Same  —  in  private  life  she  be  Sophy.     And  Waife 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  27 

tanght  her  to  act,  and  pnt  together  the  plays  for  her. 
And  Rugge  caught  at  her ;  and  she  supports  Waife  with 
what  she  gets  ;  for  Rugge  only  gives  him  four  shillings  a 
week,  and  that  goes  on  'baccy  and  suchlike." 

"  Suchlike  —  drink,  I  presume  ! "  said  Yance. 

*'  No  —  he  don't  drink.  But  he  do  smoke  ;  and  he  has 
little  genteel  ways  with  him,  and  four  shillings  goes  on 
'en>  And  they  have  been  about  the  country  this  spring, 
ai .  *one  well,  and  now  they  be  here.  But  Rugge  behaves 
shocking  hard  to  both  on  'em ;  and  I  don't  believe  he  has 
any  right  to  her  in  law,  as  he  pretends  —  only  a  sort  of 
understanding  which  she  and  her  grandfather  could  break 
if  they  pleased ;  and  that's  what  they  wish  to  do,  and 
that's  why  little  Sophy  wants  the  three  pounds." 

"  How  1 "  cried  Lionel,  eagerly.  "  If  they  had  three 
pounds,  could  they  get  away  ?  and  if  they  did,  how  could 
they  live  ?     Where  could  they  go  ?  " 

*'  That's  their  secret.  But  I  heard  Waife  say — the  first 
night  they  came  here — *  that  if  he  could  get  three  pounds, 
he  had  hit  on  a  plan  to  be  independent  like.'  I  tell  you 
what  put  his  back  up :  it  was  Rugge  insisting  on  his , 
coming  on  the  stage  again,  for  he  did  not  like  to  be  seen 
such  a  wreck.  But  he  was  forced  to  give  in  ;  and  so  he 
contrived  to  cut  up  that  play-story,  and  appear  hisself  at 
the  last  without  speaking." 

"  My  good  friend,"  cried  young  Lionel,  "  we  are  greatly 
obliged  to  you  for  your  story  —  and  we  should  much  like 
to  see  little  Sophy  and  her  grandfather  at  your  house  to- 
morrow—  can  we?" 


28  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"  Certain  sure  you  can — after  the  play's  over ;  to-night, 
if  you  like." 

"  No,  to-morrow  ;  you  see  my  friend  is  impatient  to  get 
back  now  — we  will  call  to-morrow." 

'*  'Tis  the  last  day  of  their  stay,"  said  the  Cobbler 
"  But  you  can't  be  sure  to  see  them  safely  at  my  house 
afore  ten  o'clock  at  night  —  and  not  a  word  to  Rugge  ^ 
mum ! " 

"  Not  a  word  to  Rugge,"  returned  Lionel ;  "  good-night 
to  you.'* 

The  young  men  left  the  Cobbler  still  seated  on  the 
milestone,  gazing  on  the  stars  and  ruminating.  They 
walked  briskly  down  the  road. 

"It  is  I  who  have  had  the  talk  now,"  said  Lionel,  in 
his  softest  tone.  He  was  bent  on  coaxing  three  pounds 
out  of  his  richer  friend,  and  that  might  require  somo 
management.  For  among  the  wild  youngsters  in  Mr. 
Vance's  profession,  there  ran  many  a  joke  at  the  skill 
with  which  he  parried  irregular  assaults  on  his  purse ; 
and  that  gentleman,  with  his  nose  more  than  usually  in 
the  air,  having  once  observed  to  such  scoffers  "  that  they 
were  quite  welcome  to  any  joke  at  his  expense"  —  a  wag 
had  exclaimed,  "At  your  expense  I  Don't  fear  ;  if  a  jokg 
were  worth  a  farthing,  you  would  never  give  that  per- 
mission." 

So  when  Lionel  made  that  innocent  remark,  the  soft- 
ness of  his  tone  warned  the  artist  of  some  snake  in  the 
grass  —  and  he  prudently  remained  silent.  Lionel,  in  a 
voice  still  sweeter,  repeated,  "  It  is  I  who  have  all  the 
walk  now  I " 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  29 

''  Naturally,"  then  returned  Vance,  "  naturally  you  have, 
for  it  is  you,  I  suspect,  who  alone  have  the  intention  to 
pay  for  it,  and  three  pounds  appear  to  be  the  price. 
Bearish,  eh  ?  " 

"Ah,  Vance,  if  I  had  three  pounds  1 " 

'•'  Tush  I  and  say  no  more  till  we  have  supped.  I  have 
the  hunger  of  a  wolf." 

Just  in  sight  of  the  next  milestone  the  young  travellers 
turned  a  few  yards  down  a  green  lane,  and  reached  a 
small  inn  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames.  Here  they  had 
sojourned  for  the  last  few  days,  sketching,  boating,  roam- 
ing about  the  country  from  sunrise,  and  returning  to  sup- 
per and  bed  at  nightfall.  It  was  the  pleasantest  little  inn 
— an  arbor,  covered  with  honey-suckle,  between  the  porch 
and  the  river  —  a  couple  of  pleasure-boats  moored  to  the 
bank ;  and  now  all  the  waves  rippling  under  moonlight. 

"  Supper  and  lights  in  the  arbor,"  cried  Vance  to  the 
waiting-maid,  "hey,  presto  —  quick  I  while  we  turn  in  to 
wash  our  hands.  And  harkye,  a  quart  jug  of  that  capital 
whisky-toddy. " 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Being  a  Chapter  that  links  the  Past  to  the  Future  by  the  gradual 

elucidation  of  Antecedents 

O  WAYSIDE  inns,  pedestrian  rambles  !  0  summer  nignts, 
under  honey-suckle  arbors,  on  the  banks  of  starry  waves  1 
0  Youth,  Youth  1 
3* 


30  W^HAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

V'aiB3e  ladled  out  the  toddy  and  lighted  his  cigar,  ana 
then,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  his  elbow  on  the 
table,  he  looked  with  an  artist's  eye  along  the  glancing 
river. 

"  After,  all,"  said  he,  "  I  am  glad  I  am  a  painter ;  and 
I  hope  I  may  live  to  be  a  great  one." 

"  No  doubt,  if  you  live,  you  will  be  a  great  one"  cried 
Lionel,  with  cordial  sincerity.  *'  And  if  I,  who  can  only 
just  paint  well  enough  to  please  myself,  find  that  it  gives 
a  new  charm  to  nature  —  " 

"  Cut  sentiment,"  quoth  Yance,  "and  go  on." 

"  What,"  continued  Lionel,  unchilled  by  the  admonitory 
interruption,  "  must  you  feel  who  can  fix  a  fading  sun- 
shine —  a  fleeting  face  —  on  a  scrap  of  canvass,  and  say, 
'  Sunshine  and  Beauty,  live  there  forever  ! ' " 

Vance  "  Forever !  no  !  Colors  perish,  canvas  rots. 
What  remains  to  us  of  Zeuxis  ?  Still  it  is  prettily  said 
on  behalf  of  the  poetic  side  of  the  profession  ;  there  is  a 
prosaic  one  —  we'll  blink  it.  Yes;  I  am  glad  to  be  a 
painter.  But  you  must  not  catch  the  fever  of  my  calling. 
Your  poor  mother  would  never  forgive  me  if  she  thought 
I  had  made  you  a  dauber  by  my  example." 

Lionel  (gloomily).  "  No.  I  shall  not  be  a  painter  I 
But  what  can  I  be?  How  shall  I  ever  build  on  the 
earth  one  of  the  castles  I  have  built  in  the  air  ?  Fame 
looks  so  far  —  Fortune  so  impossible  !  But  one  thing  I 
am  bent  upon"  (speaking  with  knit  brow  and  clenched 
teeth),  "  I  will  gain  an  independence  somehow,  and  sup- 
port my  mother." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  31 

Vance.  "Your  mother  is  supported  —  she  has  tbo 
pension  —  " 

Lionel.  "  Of  a  captain's  widow  and"  (he  added,  with 
a  flushed  cheek)  "  a  first  floor  that  she  lets  to  lodgers  !  " 

Vance.  "  No  shame  in  that  I  Peers  let  houses  ;  and  on 
the  Continent,  princes  let  not  only  first  floors,  but  fifth 
and  sixth  floors,  to  say  nothing  of  attics  and  cellars.  In 
beginning  the  world,  friend  Lionel,  if  you  don't  wish  to 
get  chafed  at  every  turn,  fold  up  your  pride  carefully,  put 
it  under  lock  and  key,  and  only  let  it  out  to  air  upon 
grand  occasions.  Pride  is  a  garment  all  stiff  brocade 
outside,  all  grating  sackcloth  on  the  side  next  to  the  skin. 
Even  kings  don't  wear  the  dalmaticum  except  at  a  coro- 
nation. Independence  you  desire  ;  good.  But  are  you 
dependent  now  ?  Your  mother  has  given  you  an  excel- 
lent education,  and  you  have  already  put  it  to  profit.  My 
dear  boy,"  added  Vance,  with  unusual  warmth,  "  I  honor 
you,  at  your  age,  on  leaving  school,  to  have  shut  your- 
self up,  translated  Greek  and  Latin  per  sheet  for  a  book- 
seller at  less  than  a  valet's  wages,  and  all  for  the  purpose 
of  buying  comforts  for  your  mother ;  and  having  a  few 
pounds  in  your  own  pockets,  to  rove  your  little  holiday 
with  me,  and  pay  your  share  of  the  costs !  Ah,  there 
are  energy  and  spirit  and  life  in  all  that,  Lionel,  which 
will  found  upon  rock  some  castle  as  fine  as  any  you  have 
built  in  air.     Your  hand,  my  boy." 

This  burst  was  so  unlike  the  practical  dryness,  or  even 
the  more  unctuous  humor,  of  Frank  Vance,  that  it  took 
Lionel  by  surprise,  and  his  voice  faltered  as  he  pressed 


83  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

the  hand  held  out  to  him.  He  answered,  "  I  don't  de- 
serve your  praise,  Yance,  and  I  fear  the  pride  you  tell 
me  to  put  under  lock  and  key,  has  the  larger  share  of  the 
merit  you  ascribe  to  better  motives.  Independent  ?  No  I 
I  have  never  been  so." 

Vance.  "Well,  you  depend  on  a  parent  —  who,  at 
Beventeen,  does  not  ?  " 

Lionel.  "  I  did  not  mean  my  mother ;  of  course,  I 
could  not  be  too  proud  to  take  benefits  from  her.  But 
the  truth  is  simply  this:  my  father  had  a  relation,  not 
very  near,  indeed  —  a  cousin,  at  about  as  distant  a  remove, 
I  fancy,  as  a  cousin  well  can  be.  To  this  gentleman  my 
mother  wrote  when  my  poor  father  died  —  and  he  was 
generous,  for  it  is  he  who  paid  for  my  schooling.  I  did 
not  know  this  till  very  lately.  I  had  a  vague  impression, 
indeed,  that  I  had  a  powerful  and  wealthy  kinsman  who 
took  interest  in  me,  but  whom  I  had  never  seen." 

Vance.  "  Never  seen  ? " 

Lionel.  "  No.  And  here  comes  the  sting.  On  leaving 
school  last  Christmas,  my  mother,  for  the  first  time,  told 
me  the  extent  of  my  obligations  to  this  benefactor,  and 
informed  me  that  he  wished  to  know  my  own  choice  as  to 
a  profession  —  that  if  I  preferred  Church  or  Bar,  he  would 
maintain  me  at  college." 

Vance.  "  Body  o'  me  I  where's  the  sting  in  that  ? 
Help  yourself  to  toddy,  my  boy,  and  take  more  genial 
views  of  life." 

Lionel.  "  You  have  not  heard  me  out.  I  then  asked 
%o  see  my  benefactor's  letters ;  and  my  mother,  uncon- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    "WITH    IT?  33 

scious  of  the  pain  she  was  about  to  inflict,  showed  me 
uot  only  the  last  one,  but  all  she  had  received  from  him. 
Oh,  Yance,  they  were  terrible,  those  letters  I  The  first 
began  by  a  dry  acquiescence  in  the  claims  of  kindred  —  a 
curt  proposal  to  pay  my  schooling,  but  not  one  word  of 
kindness,  and  a  stern  proviso  that  the  writer  was  lever  to 
see  nor  hear  from  me.  He  wanted  no  gratitude  —  he 
disbelieved  in  all  professions  of  it.  His  favors  would 
ceise  if  I  molested  him.  'Molested'  was  the  word  j  it 
was  bread  thrown  to  a  dog." 

Yance.  "  Tut !  Only  a  rich  man^s  eccentricity.  A 
bachelor,  I  presume  ?  " 

Lionel.  "  My  mother  says  he  has  been  married,  and 
is  a  widower." 

Yance.   "  Any  children  ?  " 

Lionel.  "  My  mother  says  none  living ;  but  I  know 
little  or  nothing  about  his  family." 

Yance  looked  with  keen  scrutiny  into  the  face  of  his  boy- 
friend, and,  after  a  pause,  said,  dryly  —  "Plain  as  a  pike- 
staflf.  Your  relation  is  one  of  those  men  who,  having  no 
children,  suspect  and  dread  the  attention  of  an  heir-pre- 
sumptive ;  and  what  has  made  this  sting,  as  you  call  it, 
keener  to  you,  is  —  pardon  me  —  is  in  some  silly  words 
of  your  mother,  who,  in  showing  you  the  letters,  has  hinted 
to  you  that  that  heir  you  might  be,  if  you  were  sufficiently 
pliant  and  subservient.     Am  I  not  right?' 

Lionel  hung  his  head,  without  reply. 

Yance  (cheeringly).  "  So,  so ;  no  great  harm  as  yet 
Enough  of  the  first  letter.     What  was  the  last  ?  " 

c 


34  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Lionel.  "  Still  more  offensive.  He,  this  kinsman,  this 
patron,  desired  my  mother  to  spare  him  those  references 
to  her  son's  ability  and  promise,  which,  though  natural 
to  herself,  had  slight  interest  to  him  —  him,  the  conde 
scending  benefactor  I  —  As  to  his  opinion,  what  could  1 
care  for  the  opinion  of  one  I  had  never  seen  ?  All  that 
could  sensibly  affect  my  —  oh,  but  I  cannot  go  on  with 
those  cutting  phrases,  which  imply  but  this,  '  All  1  can 
care  for  is  the  money  of  a  man  who  insults  me  while  he 
gives  it.'  " 

Yance  (emphatically.)  "Without  being  a  wizard,  I 
should  say  your  relative  was  rather  a  disagreeable  person 
—  not  what  is  called  urbane  and  amiable  —  in  fact,  a 
brute." 

Lionel.  "  You  will  not  blame  me,  then,  when  I  tell 
you  that  I  resolved  not  to  accept  the  offer  to  maintain 
me  at  college,  with  which  the  letter  closed.  Luckily  Dr. 
Wallis  (the  head-master  of  my  school,)  who  had  always 
been  very  kind  to  me,  had  just  undertaken  to  supervise  a 
popular  translation  of  the  classics.  He  recommended 
me,  at  my  request,  to  the  publisher  engaged  in  the  under- 
taking, as  not  incapable  of  translating  some  of  the  less 
difficult  Latin  authors  —  subject  to  his  corrections.  When 
1  had  finished  the  first  instalment  of  the  work  thus  in- 
trusted to  me,  my  mother  grew  alarmed  for  my  health, 
and  insisted  on  my  taking  some  recreation.  You  were 
about  to  set  out  on  a  pedestrian  tour.  I  had,  as  you  say, 
some  pounds  in  my  pocket ;  and  thus  I  have  passed  with 
you  the  merriest  days  of  my  life." 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  35 

Yance.  "  What  said  your  civil  cousin  when  your  re- 
fusal to  go  to  college  was  conveyed  to  him  ? " 

Lionel.  "  lie  did  not  answer  ray  mother's  communica- 
tion to  that  effect  till  just  before  I  left  home,  and  then  — 
no,  it  was  not  his  last  letter  from  which  I  repeated  that 
withering  extract  —  no,  the  last  was  more  galling  still, 
for  in  it  he  said,  that  if,  in  spite  of  the  ability  and  promise 
that  nad  been  so  vaunted,  the  dulness  of  a  college  and 
the  labor  of  learned  professions  were  so  distasteful  to  me, 
he  had  no  desire  to  dictate  to  my  choice,  but  that  as  he 
did  not  wish  one  who  was,  however  remotely,  of  his  blood, 
and  bore  the  name  of  Haughton,  to  turn  shoeblack  or 
pickpocket  —  Yance  —  Yance  !  " 

Yance.  "Lock  up  your  pride  —  the  sackcloth  frets 
you  —  and  go  on  ;  and  that  therefore  he  —  " 

Lionel.  "  Would  buy  me  a  commission  in  the  army, 
or  get  me  an  appointment  in  India."  ^ 

Yance.     "  Which  did  you  take  ?  " 

Lionel  (passionately.)    "  Which  I-  so  offered  —  which  f 

—  of  course  neither!  But,  distrusting  the  tone  of  my 
mother's  reply,  I  sat  down,  the  evening  before  I  left  home, 
and  wrote  myself  to  this  cruel  man.  I  did  not  show  my 
letter  to  my  mother  —  did  not  tell  her  of  it.  I  wrote, 
shortly  —  that,  if  he  would  not  accept  my  gratitude,  I 
would  not  accept  his  benefits ;  that  shoeblack  I  might  be 

—  pickpocket,  no  I  that  he  need  not  fear  I  should  disgrace 
his  blood  or  ray  narae ;  and  that  I  would  not  rest  till, 
sooner  or  later,  I  had  paid  him  back  all  that  I  had  cost 
him,  and  felt  relieved  fron?  the  burdens  of  an  obligation 


S6  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

which  —  which  —  "  The  boy  paused  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands,  and  sobbed. 

Vance,  though  much  moved,  pretended  to  scold  his 
friend,  but  finding  that  ineffectual,  fairly  rose,  wound  his 
arm  brother-like  round  him,  and  drew  him  from  the  arbor 
to  the  shelving  margin  of  the  river.  "  Comfort,"  then 
said  the  Artist,  almost  solemnly,  as  here,  from  the  inner 
depths  of  his  character,  the  true  genius  of  the  man  came 
forth  and  spoke —  "  Comfort,  and  look  round  ;  see  where 
the  islet  interrupts  the  tide,  and  how  smilingly  the  stream 
flows  on.  See,  just  where  we  stand,  how  the  slight  peb- 
bles are  fretting  the  wave — would  the  wave,  if  not  fretted, 
make  that  pleasant  music  ?  A  few  miles  farther  on,  and 
the  river  is  spanned  by  a  bridge,  which  busy  feet  now  are 
crossing ;  by  the  side  of  that  bridge  now  is  rising  a 
palace ;  —  all  the  men  who  rule  England  have  room  in 
that  palace.  At  the  rear  of  the  palace  soars  up  the  old 
Abbey,  where  kings  have  their  tombs  in  right  of  the 
names  they  inherit :  men  lowly  as  we  have  found  tombs 
there,  in  right  of  the  names  which  they  made.  Think, 
now,  that  you  stand  on  that  bridge  with  a  boy's  lofty  hope, 
with  a  man's  steadfast  courage  ;  then  turn  again  to  that 
stream,  calm  with  starlight,  flowing  on  toward  the  bridge 
—  spite  of  islet  and  pebbles." 

Lionel  made  no  audible  answer,  though  his  lips  mar- 
mured,  but  he  pressed  closer  and  closer  to  his  friend's 
side ;  and  the  tears  were  already  dried  on  his  cheek  — 
though  their  dew  still  glistened  in  his  eyes. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  31 


CHAPTER  y. 

Speculations  on  the  moral  qualities  of  the  Bandit. —  Mr.  Vance, 
with  mingled  emotions,  foresees  that  the  acquisition  of  the 
Bandit's  acquaintance  may  be  attended  with  pecuniary  loss. 

Vance  loosened  the  boat  from  its  moorings,  stepped 
in,  and  took  up  the  oars.  Lionel  followed,  and  sat  by 
the  stern.  The  Artist  rowed  on  slowly,  whistling  melodi- 
ously in  time  to  the  dash  of  the  oars.  They  soon  came 
to  the  bank  of  garden-ground  surrounded  with  turf,  on 
which  fairies  might  have  danced  —  one  of  those  villas 
never  seen  out  of  England.  From  the  windows  of  the 
villa  the  lights  gleamed  steadily  ;  over  the  banks,  dipping 
into  the  water,  hung  large  willows  breathlessly ;  the  boat 
gently  brushed  aside  their  pendant  boughs,  and  Yance 
rested  in  a  grassy  cove. 

And  "Faith,"  said  the  Artist,  gayly  —  "Faith,"  said 
he,  lighting  his  third  cigar,  "  it  is  time  we  should  bestow 
a  few  words  more  on  the  Remorseless  Baron  and  the 
Bandit's  Child  1  What  a  c-ock-and-a-bull  story  the  Cob- 
bler told  us  !     He  must  have  thought  us  precious  green." 

Lionel  (roused).  "  Nay,  I  see  nothing  so  wonderful 
in  the  story,  though  much  that  is  sad.  You  must  allow 
that  Waife  may  have  been  a  good  actor  —  you  became 
quite  excited  merely  at  his  attitude  and  bow.  Natural, 
therefore,  that  he  should  have  been  invited  to  try  hi.<» 

I.  — 4 


88  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

chance  on  the  London  stage  —  not  improbable  that  he 
may  have  met  with  an  accident  by  the  train,  and  so  lost 
•his  chance  forever  —  natural,  then,  that  he  should  press 
into  service  his  poor  little  grandchild  —  natural,  also,  that, 
hardly  treated,  and  his  pride  hurt,  he  should  wish  to 
escape." 

Yance.  "And  more  natural  than  all,  that  he  should 
want  to  extract  from  our  pockets  three  pounds  —  the 
Bandit !  No,  Lionel,  I  tell  you  what  is  not  probable, 
that  he  should  have  disposed  of  that  clever  child  to  a 
vagabond  like  Rugge  —  she  plays  admirably.  The 
manager  who  was  to  have  engaged  him  would  have  en- 
gaged her  if  he  had  seen  her.     I  am  puzzled." 

Lionel.  "  True,  she  is  an  extraordinary  child.  I  can- 
not say  how  she  has  interested  me."  He  took  out  his 
purse  and  began  counting  its  contents.  "  I  have  nearly 
three  pounds  left,"  he  cried,  joyously.  "  £2  18s.  if  I  give 
up  the  thought  of  a  longer  excursion  with  you,  and  go 
quietly  home." 

Yance.  "And  not  pay  your  share  of  the  bill  yonder  ? " 

Lionel.  "Ah,  I  forgot  that  I  But  come,  I  am  not  too 
proud  to  borrow  from  you,  and  it  is  not  for  a  selfish 
purpose." 

Yance.  "Borrow  from  me,  Cato  !  That  comes  cf 
illing  in  with  bandits  and  their  children.  No,  but  let 
js  look  at  the  thing  like  men  of  sense.  One  story  is 
good  till  another  is  told.  I  will  call  by  myself  on  Rugge 
to-morrow,  and  hear  what  he  says  ;  and  then,  if  we  judge 
favorably  to  the  Cobbler's  version,  we  will  go  at  night 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  39 

and  talk  with  the  Cobbler's  lodgers ;  and  I  dare  say," 
added  Yance,  kindly,  but  with  a  sigh  —  "I  dare  say  the 
three  pounds  will  be  coaxed  out  of  me  1  After  all,  her 
head  is  worth  it.     I  want  an  idea  for  Titania." 

Lionel  (joyously).  "  My  dear  Yance,  you  are  the  best 
fellow  in  the  world." 

Yance.  "  Small  compliment  to  human-kind.  Take  the 
oars  —  it  is  your  turn  now." 

Lionel  obeyed;  the  boat  once  more  danced  along  the 
tide  —  thoro'  reeds,  thoro'  waves,  skirting  the  grassy  islet 
—  out  into  pale  moonlight.  They  talked  but  by  fits  and 
starts.  What  of? — a  thousand  things.  Bright  young 
hearts,  eloquent  young  tongues  1  No  sins  in  the  past ; 
hopes  gleaming  through  the  future.  Oh  summer  nights, 
on  the  glass  of  starry  waves  I     Oh  Youth,  Youth  1 


CHAPTER   YI. 

Wherein  the  Historian  tracks  the  Public  Characters  that  fret  their 
hour  on  the  stage,  into  the  bosom  of  private  life. — The  reader 
is  invited  to  ariive  at  a  conclusion  which  may  often,  in  periods 
of  perplexity,  restore  ease  to  his  mind  ;  viz.  :  that  if  man  will 
reflect  on  all  the  hopes  he  has  nourished,  all  the  fears  he  has 
admitted,  all  the  projects  he  has  formed,  the  wisest  thing  he  can 
do,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  with  hope,  fear,  and  project,  is  to  let 
them  end  with  the  chapter  —  in  smoke. 

It  was  past  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  the  following 
t^ay.  The  exhibition  at  Mr.  Rugge's  theatre  had  closed 
for  the  season  in  that  village,  for  it  was  the  conclusion 


40  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

of  the  Fair.  The  final  performance  had  been  begun  and 
ended  ^  somewhat  earlier  than  on  former  nights.  The 
theatre  was  to  be  cleared  from  the  ground  by  day-break, 
and  the  whole  company  to  proceed  onward  betimes  in  the 
morning.  Another  Fair  awaited  them  in  an  adjoining 
county,  and  they  had  a  long  journey  before  them. 

Gentleman  Waife  and  his  Juliet  Araminta  had  gone 
to  their  lodgings  over  the  Cobbler's  stall.  The  rooms 
were  homely  enough,  but  had  an  air  not  only  of  the  com- 
fortable, but  the  picturesque.  The  little  sitting-room  was 
very  old-fashioned  —  paneled  in  wood  that  had  once  been 
painted  blue  —  with  a  quaint  chimney-piece  that  reached 
to  the  ceiling.  That  part  of  the  house  spoke  of  the  time 
of  Charles  I.  It  might  have  been  tenanted  by  a  religious 
Roundhead  ;  and  framed-in  over  the  low  door  there  was 
a  grim  faded  portrait  of  a  pinched-faced  saturnine  man, 
with  long  lank  hair,  starched  band,  and  a  length  of  upper- 
lip  that  betokened  relentless  obstinacy  of  character,  and 
might  have  curled  in  sullen  glee  at  the  monarch's  scaffold, 
or  preached  an  interminable  sermon  to  the  stout  Pro- 
tector. On  a  table,  under  the  deep-sunk  window,  were 
neatly  arrayed  a  few  sober-looking  old  books  ;  you  would 
find  among  them  Colley^s  Astrology,  Owen  FeUham^s 
Resolves,  Glanville  on  Witches,  The  Pilgrim'' s  Progress, 
an  early  edition  of  Paradise  Lost,  and  an  old  Bible  ;  also 
two  flower-pots  of  clay  brightly  reddened,  and  contain- 
ing stocks ;  also  two  small  worsted  rugs,  on  one  of  which 
rested  a  carved  cocoa-nut,  on  the  other  an  egg-shaped 
ball  of  crystal  —  that  last  the  pride  and  joy  of  the  Cob- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  4l 

bier's  visionary  soul.  A  door  left  wide  open  communi- 
cated with  an  inner  room  (very  low  was  its  ceiling),  in 
which  the  Bandit  slept,  if  the  severity  of  his  persecutors 
permitted  him  to  sleep.  In  the  corner  of  the  sitting- 
room,  near  that  door,  was  a  small  horse-hair  sofa,  which, 
by  the  aid  of  sheets  and  a  needlework  coverlid,  did  duty 
for  a  bed,  and  was  consigned  to  the  Bandit's  child.  Here 
the  tenderness  of  the  Cobbler's  heart  was  visible,  for  over 
the  30verlid  were  strewed  sprigs  of  lavender,  and  leaves 
of  vervain  —  the  last,  be  it  said,  to  induce  happy  dreams, 
and  scare  away  witchcraft  and  evil  spirits.  On  another 
table,  near  the  fire-place,  the  child  was  busied  in  setting 
out  the  tea-things  for  her  grandfather.  She  had  left  in 
the  property-room  of  the  theatre  her  robe  of  spangles 
and  tinsel,  and  appeared  now  in  a  simple  frock.  She  had 
no  longer  the  look  of  Titania,  but  that  of  a  lively,  active, 
affectionate  human  child  j  nothing  theatrical  about  her 
now,  yet  still,  in  her  graceful  movements,  so  nimble  but 
so  noiseless,  in  her  slight  fair  hands,  in  her  transparent 
coloring,  there  was  Nature's  own  lady  —  that  something 
which  strikes  us  all  as  well-born  and  high-bred  ;  not  that 
it  necessarily  is  so  —  the  semblances  of  aristocracy,  in 
female  childhood  more  especially,  are  often  delusive.  The 
souvenance  flower  wrought  into  the  collars  of  princes 
springs  up  wild  on  field  and  fell. 

Gentleman  Waife,  wrapped  negligently  in  a  gray  dress- 
ing-gown, and  seated  in  an  old  leathern  easy-chair,  was 
evidently  out  of  sorts.     He  did  not  seem  to  heed  the 
little  preparations  for  his  comfort,  but,  resting  his  cheek 
4* 


42  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

on  his  right  hand,  his  left  drooped  on  his  crossed  knees  — 
an  attitude  rarely  seen  in  a  man  when  his  heart  is  light 
and  his  spirits  high.  His  lips  moved  —  he  was  talking 
to  himself.  Though  he  had  laid  aside  his  theatrical 
bandage  over  both  eyes,  he  wore  a  black  patch  over  one, 
or  rather  where  one  had  been ;  the  eye  exposed  was  of 
singular  beauty,  dark  and  brilliant.  For  the  rest,  the 
man  had  a  striking  countenance,  rugged,  and  rather  ugly 
than  otherwise,  but  by  no  means  unprepossessing ;  full  of 
lines,  and  wrinkles,  and  strong  muscle,  with  large  lips  of 
wondrous  pliancy,  and  an  aspect  of  wistful  sagacity,  that, 
no  doubt,  on  occasion  could  become  exquisitely  comic  — 
dry  comedy  —  the  comedy  that  makes  others  roar  when 
the  comedian  himself  is  as  grave  as  a  judge. 

You  might  see  in  his  countenance,  when  quite  in  its 
natural  repose,  that  Sorrow  had  passed  by  there  ;  yet  the 
instant  the  countenance  broke  into  play,  you  would  think 
that  Sorrow  must  have  been  sent  about  her  business  as 
soon  as  the  respect  due  to  that  visitor,  so  accustomed  to 
have  her  own  way,  would  permit.  Though  the  man  was 
old,  you  could  not  call  him  aged.  One-eyed  and  crippled, 
still,  marking  the  muscular  arm,  the  expansive  chest,  you 
would  have  scarcely  called  him  broken  or  infirm.  And 
hence  there  was  a  certain  indescribable  pathos  in  hia 
wnole  appearance,  as  if  Fate  had  branded,  on  face  and 
form,  characters  in  which  might  be  read  her  agencies  on 
career  and  mind — plucked  an  eye  from  intelligence,  short- 
ened one  limb  for  life's  progress,  yet  left  whim  sparkling 
out  in  the  eye  she  had  spared,  and  a  light  heart's  wild 
Bpring  in  the  limb  she  had  maimed  not. 


WHAT     WILL     HE    DO    WITH    IT?  43 

"  Come,  Grandy,  come,"  said  the  little  girl,  coaxingly , 
"your  tea  will  get  quite  cold  ;  your  toast  is  ready,  and 
bore  is  such  a  nice  egg — Mr.  Merle  says  you  may  be  sure 
it  is  new  laid.  Come,  don't  Vet  that  hateful  man  fret  you  ; 
Bmde  on  your  own  Sophy  —  come.'^ 

"  If" — said  Mr.  Waife,  in  a  hollow  undertone  —  "11'  I 
were  alone  in  the  world." 

"Oh!  Grandy." 

•*  '  I  know  a  spot  on  "which  a  bed-post  grows, 
And  do  remember  where  a  roper  lives.' 

J)elightful  prospect,  not  to  be  indulged  :  for  if  I  were  in 
peace  at  one  end  of  the  rope,  what  would  chance  to  my 
Sophy,  left  forlorn  at  the  other?" 

"  Don't  talk  so,  oi*  I  shall  think  you  are  sorry  to  have 
taken  care  of  me." 

"  Care  of  thee,  0  child  1  and  what  care  ?  It  is  thou 
who  takest  care  of  me.  Put  thy  hands  from  my  mouth  ; 
sit  down,  darling,  there,  opposite,  and  let  us  talk.  Now, 
Sophy,  thou  hast  often  said  that  thou  wouldst  be  glad  to 
be  out  of  this  mode  of  life  even  for  one  humbler  and 
harder  :  think  well  —  is  it  so  ?  " 

"Ohl  yes,  indeed,  grandfather.'* 

"  No  more  tinsel  dresses  and  flowery  wreaths ;  no  more 
applause ;  no  more  of  the  dear  divine  stage  excitement; 
the  heroine  and  fairy  vanished ;  ^nly  a  little  common- 
place child  in  dingy  gingham,  with  a  purblind  cripple  for 
thy  sole  charge  and  playmate ;  Juliet  Aramin^a  evapo- 
rated evermore  into  little  Sophy  1 " 

"  It  would  be  so  nice  I "  answered  little  Sophy,  laugh- 
ing merrily. 


44  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"What  would  make  it  nice?"  asked  the  comedian, 
turning  on  her  his  solitary  piercing  eye,  with  curious  in- 
terest in  his  gaze. 

Sophy  left  her  seat,  and  placed  herself  on  a  stool  at 
her  grandfather's  knee;  on  that  knee  she  clasped  her 
tiny  hands,  and  shaking  aside  her  curls,  looked  into  his 
face  with  confident  fondness.  Evidently  these  two  were 
much  more  than  grandfather  and  grandchild — they  were 
friends,  they  were  equals,  they  were  in  the  habit  of  con- 
sulting and  prattling  with  each  other.  She  got  at  his 
meaning,  however  covert  his  humor ;  and  he  to  the  core 
of  her  heart,  through  its  careless  babble.  Between  you 
and  me,  Reader,  I  suspect  that,  in  spite  of  the  come- 
dian's sagacious  wrinkles,  the  one  was  as  much  a  child  as 
the  other. 

"Well,"  said  Sophy,  "I  will  tell  you,  Grandy,  wha,t 
would  make  it  nice  —  no  one  would  vex  and  aflTront  you, 
we  should  be  all  by  ourselves ;  and  then,  instead  of  those 
nasty  lamps,  and  those  dreadful  painted  creatures,  we 
could  go  out  and  play  in  the  fields,  and  gather  daisies ; 
and  I  could  run  after  butterflies,  and  when  I  am  tired  I 
should  come  here,  where  I  am  now,  any  time  of  the  day, 
and  you  would  tell  me  stories  and  pretty  verses,  and  teach 
me  to  write  a  little  better  than  I  do  now,  and  make  such 
a  wise  little  woman  of  me ;  and  if  I  wore  gingham,  but 
it  need  not  be  dingy,  Grandy,  it  would  be  all  mine,  and 
you  would  be  all  mine  too,  and  we'd  keep  a  bird,  and 
you'd  teach  it  to  sing ;  and  oh,  would  it  not  be  nice  I " 

"  But,  still,  Sophy,  we  should  have  to  live,  and  we  could 


WHAT    WILL    HE     DO     WITH     IT?  45 

not  live  upon  daisies  and  butterflies.  And  I  can't  work 
now — for  the  matter  of  that,  I  never  could  work — more 
shame  for  me,  but  so  it  is.  Merle  says  the  fault  is  in  the 
stars — with  all  my  heart.  But  the  stars  will  not  go  to 
the  jail  or  the  workhouse  instead  of  me.  And  though 
they  want  nothing  to  eat,  we  do." 

"  But,  Grandy,  you  have  said  every  day  since  the  first 
walk  you  took  after  coming  here,  that  if  you  had  three 
pounds,  we  could  get  away  and  live  by  ourselves,  and  make 
a  fortune ! " 

"  A  fortune — that's  a  strong  word ;  let  it  stand.  A 
fortune !  But  still,  Sophy,  though  we  should  be  free  of 
this  thrice  execrable  Rugge,  the  scheme  I  have  in  my  head 
lies  remote  from  daisies  and  butterflies.  We  should  have 
to  dwell  in  towns,  and  exhibit ! " 

"  On  a  stage,  Grandy  ? "  said  Sophy,  resigned,  but 
sorrowful. 

"  No,  not  exactly — a  room  would  do." 

*'  And  I  should  not  wear  those  horrid,  horrid  dresses^ 
nor  mix  with  those  horrid,  horrid  painted  people  ?  " 

"No.'^ 

"  And  we  should  be  quite  alone,  you  and  I  ?  " 

"  Hum  !  there  would  be  a  third." 

"  Oh,  Grandy,  Grandy ! "  cried  Sophy,  in  a  scream  of 
shrill  alarm.  "  I  know — I  know ;  you  are  thinking  of 
joining  us  with  the  Pig-faced  Lady !" 

Mr.  Waife  (not  a  muscle  relaxed).  "A  well-spoken 
and  pleasing  gentlewoman.  But  no  such  luck;  three 
pounds  would  not  buy  her." 


46  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

Sophy.  "  I  am  glad  of  that ;  I  don't  care  so  much  fox 
the  Mermaid — she's  dead  and  stuffed.  But,  oh''  (another 
scream),  "  perhaps  'tis  the  Spotted  Boy  I " 

Mr.  Waife.  "  Calm  your  sanguine  imagination  ;  you 
aspire  too  high  !  But  this  I  will  tell  you,  that  our  com- 
panion, whatsoever  or  whosoever  that  companion  may  be, 
will  be  one  you  will  like." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Sophy,  shaking  her  head 
"  I  only  like  you.     But  who  is  it  ?  " 

"Alas  !  "  said  Mr.  Waife,  "  it  is  no  use  pampering  oui- 
selves  with  vain  hopes  ;  the  three  pounds  are  not  forth- 
coming. You  heard  what  that  brute  Rugge  said,  that 
the  gentleman  who  wanted  to  take  your  portrait  had 
called  on  him  this  morning,  and  offered  10s.  for  a  sitting 
— that  is,  5s.  for  you,  5s.  for  Rugge  ;  and  Rugge  thought 
the  terms  reasonable.'^ 

"But  I  said  I  would  not  sit." 

"And  when  you  did  say  it,  you  heard  Rugge's  language 
to  me — to  you.  And  now  we  must  think  of  packing  up, 
and  be  off  at  dawn  with  the  rest.  And,"  added  the  come- 
dian, coloring  high,  "  I  must  again  parade,  to  boors  and 
clowns,  this  mangled  form  ;  again  set  myself  out  as  a 
spectacle  of  bodily  infirmity  —  man's  last  degradation 
And  this  I  have  come  to  .—  i  ! " 

"  No,  no,  Grandy,  it  will  not  last  long  I  we  will  get  the- 
three  pounds.  We  have  always  hoped  on  I  —  hope  still  I 
And  besides,  I  am  sure  those  gentlemen  will  come  here 
to-night.  Mr.  Merle  said  they  would,  at  ten  o'clock  1\ 
is  near  ten  now,  and  your  tea  cold  as  a  stone.'' 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  i1 

She  hung  on  his  neck  caressingly,  kissing  his  furrowed 
brow,  and  leaving  a  tear  there,  and  thus  coaxed  him  till 
he  set  to  quietly  at  his  meal ;  and  Sophy  shared  it,  though 
she  had  no  appetite  in  sorrowing  for  him  —  but  to  keep 
him  company ;  that  done,  she  lighted  his  pipe  with  the 
best  canaster  —  his  sole  luxury  and  expense  ;  but  she  al- 
ways contrived  that  he  should  afiford  it 

Mr.  Waife  drew  a  long  whiflf,  and  took  a  more  serene 
view  of  affairs.  He  who  doth  not  smoke  hath  either 
known  no  great  griefs,  or  refuseth  himself  the  softest  con- 
solation, next  to  that  which  comes  from  heaven.  "What 
softer  than  woman  ?  whispers  the  young  reader.  Young 
reader,  woman  teases  as -well  as  consoles.  Woman  makes 
half  the  sorrows  which  she  boasts  the  privilege  to  soothe. 
Woman  consoles  us,  it  is  true,  while  we  are  young  and 
handsome ;  when  we  are  old  and  ugly,  woman  snubs  and 
scolds  us.  On  the  whole,  then,  woman  in  this  scale,  the 
weed  in  that,  Jupiter,  hang  out  thy  balance,  and  weigh 
them  both  ;  and  if  thou  give  the  preference  to  woman,  al: 
I  can  say  is,  the  next  time  Juno  ruffles  thee —  0  Jupiter 
try  the  weed ! 


4S  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 


CHAPTER  YII. 

The  Historian,  in  pursuance  of  his  stern  duties,  reveals  to  the  scorn 
of  future  ages  some  of  the  occult  practices  which  discredit  the 
March  of  Light  in  the  Nineteenth  Century. 

May  I  come  in  ? "  asked  the  Cobbler  outside  the  door. 

"Certainly,  come  in,"  said  Gentleman  Waife.  Sophy 
looked  wistfully  at  the  aperture,  and  sighed  to  see  that 
Merle  was  alone.     She  crept  up  to  him. 

"  Will  they  not  come  ?  "  she  -whispered. 

*'I  hope  so,  pretty  one;  it  ben't  ten  yet." 

"  Take  a  pipe,  Merle,"  said  Gentleman  Waife^  with  a 
grand  Comedian  air. 

"  No,  thank  you  kindly ;  T  just  looked  in  to  ask  if  I 
could  do  any  thing  for  ye,  in  case  — in  case  ye  must  go 
to-morrow." 

"  Nothing ;  our  luggage  is  small,  and  soon  packed. 
Sophy  has  the  money  to  discharge  the  meaner  part  of  our 
debt  to  you." 

"I  don't  value  that,"  said  the  Cobbler,  coloring. 

"  But  we  value  your  esteem,"  said  Mr.  Waife,  with  a 
smile  that  would  have  become  a  field-marshal.  "And  so. 
Merle,  you  think,  if  I  am  a  broken-down  vagrant,  it  must 
be  put  to  the  long  account  of  the  celestial  bodies  I " 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  returned  the  Cobbler,  solemnly. 
•*  I  wish  you  would  give  me  date  and  place  of  Sophy's 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  49 

birth — that's  what  I  want — I'd  take  her  horrjscope.    I'm 
■*ure  she'd  be  lucky." 

"  I'd  rather  not,  please,"  said  Sophy,  timidly. 

"  Rather  not  ?  —  very  odd.     Why  ?  " 

"I  don't  want  to  know  the  future." 
That  is  odder  and  odder,"  quoth  the  Cobbler,  staring ; 
**I  never  heard  a  girl  say  that  afore." 

"  Wait  till  she's  older,  Mr.  Merle,"  said  Waife  ;  "  girls 
don't  want  to  know  the  future  till  they  want  to  be  mar- 
ried. " 

"  Summat  in  that,"  said  the  Cobbler.  He  took  up  the 
crystal.  "  Have  you  looked  into  this  ball,  pretty  one,  as 
I  bade  ye  ?  " 

"Yes,  two  or  three  times." 

"  Ha  !  and  what  did  you  see  ?  " 

"  My  own  face  made  very  long,"  said  Sophy — "  as  long 
as  that^^  —  stretching  out  her  hands. 

"  The  Cobbler  shook  his  head  dolefully,  and,  screwing 
up  one  eye,  applied  the  other  to  the  mystic  ball. 

Mr.  Waife.  "  Perhaps  you  will  see  if  those  two  gen- 
tlemen are  coming." 

Sophy.  "Do,  do  1  and  if  they  will  give  us  three 
pounds ! " 

The  Cobbler  (triumphantly).  "  Then  you  do  care  to 
know  the  future,  after  all  ?  " 

Sophy.  "  Yes,  so  far  as  that  goes  ;  but  don't  look  any 
farther,  pray." 

The  Cobbler  (intent   upon   the   ball,  and   speaking 

L  — 5  D 


60  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

slowly,  and  in  jerks).  "A  mist  now.  Ha  I  an  arm  with  a 
besom  —  sweeps  all  before  it." 

Sophy  (frightened),   "Send  it  away,  please." 

Cobbler.  "It  is  gone.  Hal  there's  Rugge  —  looks 
very  angry  —  savage,  indeed." 

Waife.  "Good  sign  that  I  proceed." 

Cobbler  "  Shakes  his  fist ;  gone.  Hal  a  young  man, 
boyish,  dark  hair." 

Sophy  (clapping  her  hands).  "  That  is  the  young  gen- 
tleman—  the  very  young  one,  I  mean  —  with  the  kind 
eyes  ;  is  he  coming  ?  —  is  he,  is  he  ?  " 

Waife.  "  Examine  his  pockets  I  do  you  see  there  three 
pounds  ?  " 

Cobbler  (testily).  "  Don't  be  a  interrupting.  Ha  I  he 
is  talking  with  another  gentleman,  bearded." 

Sophy  (whispering  to  her  grandfather).  "  The  old 
young  gentleman." 

Cobbler  (putting  down  the  crystal,  and  with  great  de- 
cision). "  They  are  coming  here ;  I  see'd  them  at  the 
corner  of  the  lane,  by  the  public-house,  two  minutes'  walk 
to  this  door."  He  took  out  a  great  silver  watch  :  "  Look, 
Sophy,  when  the  minute-hand  gets  there  (or  before,  if 
they  walk  briskly),  you  will  hear  them  knock." 

Sophy  clasped  her  hands  in  mute  suspense,  half-credu- 
lous, half-doubting ;  then  she  went  and  opened  the  room- 
door,  and  stood  on  the  landing-place  to  listen. 

Merle  approached  tho  Comedian,  and  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  "I  wish  for  your  sake  she  had  the  gift." 

Waife.   "  The  gift  I  —  the  three  pounds  !  —  so  do  1 1 " 


WHAT    "WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  5l 

Cobbler.  "  Pooh  I  worth  a  hundred  times  three  pounds ; 

the  gift  —  the  spirituous  gift." 

Waife.  "  Spirituous  !  don't  lil^e  the  epithet  —  smells 
of  gin ! " 

Cobbler.  "  Spirituous  gift  to  see  in  the  crystal :  if  she 
had  that,  she  might  make  your  fortune." 

Gentleman  Waife  (with  a  sudden  change  of  counte- 
nance). "Ah  I  I  never  thought  of  that.  But  if  she  has 
not  the  gift,  I  could  teach  it  her  —  eh?" 

The  Cobbler  (indignantly).  "  I  did  not  think  to  hear 
this  from  you,  Mr.  Waife.  Teach  her  —  you  !  make  her 
an  impostor,  and  of  the  wickedest  kind,  inventing  lies 
between  earth  and  them  as  dwell  in  the  seven  spheres  I 
Fie  !  No,  if  she  hasn't  the  gift  natural,  let  her  alone ; 
what  here  is  not  heaven-sent,  is  devil-taught." 

Waife  (awed,  but  dubious).  "  Then  you  really  think 
you  saw  all  that  you  described,  in  that  glass  ^gg  ?  " 

Cobbler.  "  Think  I  —  am  I  a  liar  ?  I  spoke  truth, 
and  the  proof  is  there  !  "  —  Rat-tat  went  the  knocker  at 
the  door. 

"  The  two  minutes  are  just  up,"  said  the  Cobbler ;  and 
Cornelius  Agrippa  could  not  have  said  it  with  more 
wizardly  effect. 

"They  are  come,  indeed,"  said  Sophy,  re-entering  the 
room  softly  ;  "  I  hear  their  voices  at  the  threshold." 

The  Cobbler  passed  by  in  silence,  descended  the  stairs, 
and  conducted  Yance  and  Lionel  into  the  Comedian'a 
chamber ;  there  he  left  them,  his  brow  overcast.     Gentle 
man  Waife  had  displeased  him  sorely. 


si. 


Of  tu-  ^'^' 


S2  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 


CHAPTER  YIII. 

Showing  the  arts  by  -which  a  man,  however  high  in  the  air  Nature 
may  have  formed  his  nose,  may  be  led  by  that  nose,  and  in 
direction  perversely  opposite  to  those  which,  in  following  his 
nose,  he  might  be  supposed  to  take;  and  therefore,  that  nations 
the  most  liberally  endowed  with  practical  good  sense,  and  in  con- 
ceit thereof,  carrying  their  noses  the  most  horizontally  aloof, 
when  they  come  into  conference  with  nations  more  skilled  in  di- 
plomacy, and  more  practiced  in  "stage-play,"  end  by  the  sur- 
render of  the  precise  object  which  it  was  intended  they  should 
surrender  before  they  laid  their  noses  together. 

We  all  know  that  Demosthenes  said,  Every  thing  in 
oratory  was  acting  —  stage-play.  Is  it  in  oratory  alone 
that  the  saying  holds  good  ?  Apply  it  to  all  circum- 
stances of  life  —  stage-play,  stage-play,  stage-play  1 "  — 
only  drs  est  celare  artem,  conceal  the  art.  Gleesome  in 
soul  to  behold  his  visitors,  calculating  already  on  the 
three  pounds  to  be  extracted  from  them,  seeing  in  that 
hope  the  crisis  in  his  own  checkered  existence,  Mr. 
Waife  rose  from  his  seat  in  superb  upocrisia  or  stage- 
play,  and  asked,  with  mild  dignity  —  "  To  whom  am  I  in- 
debted, gentlemen,  for  the  honor  of  your  visit  ?  " 

In  spite  of  his  nose,  even  Yance  was  taken  aback. 
Pope  says  that  Lord  Bolingbroke  had  "the  nobleman 
air."  A  great  comedian  Lord  Bolingbroke  surely  was. 
But,  ah,  had  Pope  seen  Gentleman  Waife  !  Taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  impression  he  had  created,  the  actor  ad- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  65 

ded,  with  the  finest  imaginable  breeding  —  "But  pray  be 
seated ;  "  and,  once  seeing  them  seated,  resumed  his  easy- 
chair,  and  felt  himself  master  of  the  situation. 

"  Hum  I "  said  Yance,  recovering  his  self  posession, 
after  a  pause  —  "  hum  1  " 

"  Hem  I  "  re-echoed  Gentleman  Waife  ;  and  the  two 
men  eyed  each  other  much  in  the  same  way  as  Admiral 
Napier  might  have  eyed  the  fort  of  Cronstadt,  and  the 
fort  of  Cronstadt  have  eyed  Admiral  Napier. 

Lionel  struck  in  with  that  youthful  boldness  which 
plays  the  deuce  with  all  dignified,  strategical  science. 

"  You  must  be  aware  why  we  come,  Sir ;  Mr.  Merle  will 
have  explained.  My  friend,  a  distinguished  artist,  wished 
to  make  a  sketch,  if  you  do  not  object,  of  this  young 
lady's  very  —  "  "Pretty  little  face,"  quoth  Yance,  taking 
up  the  discourse.  "  Mr.  Rugge,  this  morning  was  willing 
—  I  understand  that  your  grandchild  refused.  We  are 
come  here  to  see  if  she  will  be  more  complaisant  under 
your  own  roof,  or  under  Mr.  Merle's,  which,  I  take  it,  is 
the  same  thing  for  the  present"  —  Sophy  had  sidled  up 
to  Lionel.  He  might  not  have  been  flattered  if  he  knew 
why  she  preferred  him  to  Yance.  She  looked  on  him  as 
a  boy  —  a  fellow-child  —  and  an  instinct,  moreover,  told 
her,  that  more  easily  through  him  than  his  shrewd-look- 
ing, bearded  guest  could  she  attain  the  object  of  her  cu- 
pidity —  " three  pounds  I " 

"  Three  pounds  I  "  whispered  Sophy,  with  the  tones  of 
an  angel,  into  Lionel's  thrilling  ear. 

Mr.  Waife.  "  Sir,  I  will  be  frank  with  you."  At  that 
6* 


54  WBATTVILLHEDOWITHIT? 

ominous  commencement  Mr.  Yance  recoiled,  and  mechani- 
cally buttoned  his  trowsers  pocket.  Mr.  Waife  noted  the 
gesture  with  his  one  eye,  and  proceeded  cautiously,  feel- 
ing his  way,  as  it  were,  toward  the  interior  of  the  recess 
thus  protected.  "  My  grandchild  declined  your  flattering 
proposal  with  my  full  approbation.  She  did  not  consider 
—  neither  did  I  —  that  the  managerial  rights  of  Mr. 
Rugge  entitled  him  to  the  moiety  of  her  face  —  off  the 
stage."  The  Comedian  paused,  and  with  a  voice,  the 
mimic  drollery  of  which  no  hoarseness  could  altogether 
*nar,  chanted  the  old  line, 

"  •  My  face  is  my  fortune,  Sir,'  she  said." 

Yance  smiled  —  Lionel  laughed;  Sophy  nestled  still 
Qearer  to  the  boy. 

Gextleman  Waife  (with  pathos  and  dignity).  "  You 
see  before  you  an  old  man  ;  one  way  of  life  is  the  same  to 
me  as  another.  But  she  —  do  you  think  Mr.  Kugge's 
stage  the  right  place  for  her  ?  " 

Yance.  "  Certainly  not.  Why  did  you  not  introduce 
her  to  the  London  manager  who  would  have  engaged 
yourself?  " 

Waife  could  not  conceal  a  slight  change  of  counte- 
nance. "  How  do  I  know  she  would  have  succeeded  ? 
She  had  never  then  trod  the  boards.  Besides,  what 
strikes  you  as  so  good  in  a  village  show  may  be  poor 
enough  in  a  metropolitan  theatre.  Gentlemen,  I  did  my 
best  for  her -7- you  cannot  think  otherwise,  since  she 
maintains  me  !    I  am  no  (Edipus,  vet  she  is  my  Antigone." 

Yance.  "  You  know  the  classics,  Sir.     Mr.  Merle  said 


WHAT    "WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  55 

rou  were  a  scholar! — read  Sophocles  in  his  native 
Greek,  I  presume,  Sir  ?  " 

Mr.  Waife.  "  You  jeer  at  the  unfortunate  ;  I  am  used 
to  it." 

Vance  (confused).  "  I  did  not  mean  to  wound  you  — 
I  beg  pardon.  But  your  language  and  manner  are  not 
^vhat  —  what  one  might  expect  to  find  in  a  —  in  a  —  Ban- 
dit persecuted  by  a  remorseless  Baron," 

Mr.  Waife.  "  Sir,  you  say  you  are  an  artist.  Have 
you  heard  no  tales  of  your  professional  brethren  —  men 
of  genius  the  highest,  who  won  fame  which  I  never  did, 
and  failed  of  fortune  as  I  have  done  ?  Their  own  fault, 
perhaps  —  improvidence,  wild  habits — ignorance  of  the 
way  how  to  treat  life  and  deal  with  their  fellow-men  ;  such 
fault  may  have  been  mine,  too.  I  suffer  for  it ;  no  matter 
—  I  ask  none  to  save  me.  You  are  a  painter  —  you 
would  place  her  features  on  your  canvas  —  you  would 
have  her  rank  among  your  own  creations.  She  may  be- 
come a  part  of  your  immortality.  Princes  may  gaze  on 
the  efBgies  of  the  innocent,  happy  childhood,  to  which 
your  colors  lent  imperishable  glow.  They  may  ask  who 
and  what  was  this  fair  creature  ?  Will  you  answer,  '  One 
whom  I  found  in  tinsel,  and  so  left,  sure  that  she  would 
die  in  rags  ! '  —  Save  her  I  " 

Lionel  drew  forth  his  purse,  and  poured  its  contents  on 
the  table  Yanct  covered  them  with  his  broad  hand,  and 
swept  them  into  his  own  pocket !  At  that  sinister  action 
Waife  felt  his  heart  sink  into  his  shoes ;  but  his  face  was 
calm  as  a  Roman's,  only  he  resumed  his  pipe  with  a  pro- 
longed and  testy  whiff. 


56  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"  It  is  I  who  am  to  take  the  portrait,  and  it  is  I  who 
will  pay  for  it,"  said  Yance.  "  I  understand  that  you  have 
a  pressing  occasion  for — "  "  Three  pounds  ! "  muttered 
Sophy,  sturdily,  through  the  tears  which  her  grandfather's 
pathos  had  drawn  forth  from  her  downcast  eyes  — "  Three 
pounds  —  three  —  three. " 

"  You  shall  have  them.  But  listen  ;  I  meant  only  to 
take  a  sketch  —  I  must  now  have  a  finished  portrait.  I 
cannot  take  this  by  candle-light.  You  must  let  me  come 
here  to-morrow ;  and  yet  to-morrow,  I  understand,  you 
meant  to  leave  ?  " 

Waife.  "  If  you  will  generously  bestow  on  us  the  sura 
you  say,  we  shall  not  leave  the  village  till  you  have  com- 
pleted your  picture.  It  is  Mr.  Rugge  and  his  company 
we  will  leave." 

Vance.  "And  may  I  venture  to  ask  what  you  propose 
to  do  toward  a  new  livelihood  for  yourself  and  your  grand- 
child, by  the  help  of  a  sum  which  is  certainly  much  for 
me  to  pay — enormous,  I  might  say,  quoad  me — but  small 
for  a  capital  whereon  to  set  up  a  business  ?  " 

Waife.  "Excuse  me  if  I  do  not  answer  that  very 
natural  question  at  present.  Let  me  assure  you  that  that 
precise  sum  is  wanted  for  an  investment  which  promises 
her  and  myself  an  easy  existence.  But  to  insure  my  scheme 
I  must  keep  it  secret.     Do  you  believe  me  ?  " 

"  I  do  I "  cried  Lionel ;  and  Sophy,  whom,  by  this  time 
he  had  drawn  upon  his  lap,  put  her  arm  gratefully  round 
his  neck. 

"  There  is  your  money,  Sir,  beforehand,"  said  Yance 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  61 

declining  downward  his  betrayed  and  resentful  nose,  and 
depositing  three  sovereigns  on  the  table. 

"And  how  do  you  know,"  said  Waife,  smiling,  "that 
I  may  not  be  off  to-night  with  your  money  and  your 
model  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Yance,  curtly,  "  I  think  it  is  on  the  cards. 
Still,  as  John  Kemble  said  when  rebuked  for  too  large 
an  alms : 

*It  is  not  often  that  I  do  these  things,  j 

But  -when  I  do,  I  do  them  handsomely.' " 

"Well  applied,  and  well  delivered.  Sir,"  said  the 
Comedian,  "  only  you  should  put  a  little  more  emphasis 
on  the  word  c?o." 

"Did  I  not  put  enough  ?  I  am  sure  I  felt  it  strongly ; 
no  one  can  feel  the  do  more  1 " 

Waife 's  pliant  face  relaxed  into  genial  brightness  — 
the  equivoque  charmed  him.  However,  not  aifectiug  to 
comprehend  it,  he  thrust  back  the  money,  and  said,  "  No, 
Sir — not  a  shilling  till  the  picture  is  completed.  Nay, 
to  relieve  your  mind,  I  will  own  that,  had  I  no  scruple 
more  delicate,  I  would  rather  receive  nothing  till  Mr. 
Rugge  is  gone.  True,  he  has  no  right  to  any  share  in 
it.  But  you  see  before  you  a  man  who,  when  it  comes  to 
arguing,  could  never  take  a  wrangler's  degree  —  never 
get  over  the  Ass's  Bridge,  Sir.  Plucked  at  it  scores  of 
times  clean  as  a  feather.  But  do  not  go  yet.  You  came 
to  give  us  money ;  give  us  what,  were  I  rich,  I  should 
value  more  highly  —  a  little  of  your  time.  You,  Sir,  are 
an  artist ;  and  you,  young  gentleman  ?  "  addressing  Lionel 


r»8  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Lionel  (coloring).  "I  —  am  nothing  as  yet.*' 

Waife.  "You  are  fond  of  the  drama,  I  presume,  both 
of  you.  Apropos  of  John  Kemble,  you,  Sir,  said  that  you 
have  never  heard  him.  Allow  me,  so  far  as  this  cracked 
voice  can  do  it,  to  give  you  a  faint  idea  of  him." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Vance,  drawing  nearer  to 
the  table,  and  feeling  more  at  his  ease.  "  But  since  I  see 
you  smoke,  may  I  take  the  liberty  to  light  my  cigar  ?  " 

"  Make  yourself  at  home,"  said  Gentleman  Waife,  with 
the  good-humor  of  a  fatherly  host.  And  all  the  while, 
Lionel  and  Sophy  were  babbling  together,  she  still  upon 
his  lap. 

Waife  began  his  imitation  of  John  Kemble.  Despite 
the  cracked  voice  it  was  admirable.  One  imitation  drew 
on  another ;  then  succeeded  anecdotes  of  the  Stage,  ot 
the  Senate,  of  the  Bar.  Waife  had  heard  great  orators, 
whom  every  one  still  admires  for  the  speeches  which  no- 
body, nowadays,  ever  reads ;  he  gave  a  lively  idea  of 
each.  And  then  came  sayings  of  dry  humor,  and  odd 
scraps  of  worldly  observation  ;  and  time  flew  on  plea- 
santly till  the  clock  struck  twelve,  and  the  young  guests 
tore  themselves  away. 

"  Merle,  Merle  I "  cried  the  Comedian,  when  they  were 
gone. 

Merle  appeared. 

'*  We  don't  go  to-morrow.  When  Rugge  sends  for  us 
(as  he  will  do  at  daybreak),  say  so.  You  shall  lodge  us 
a  few  days  longer,  and  then  —  and  then  — my  little  Sophy, 
kiss  me,  kiss  me  !  You  are  saved  at  least  from  those 
horrid  painted  creatures  1 " 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  59 

"Ah,  ah,"  growled  Merle  from  below,  "he  has  got  the 
money  !  Glad  to  hear  it.  "  But,"  he  added,  as  he  glanced 
at  sundry  weird  and  astrological  symbols  with  which  ho 
had  been  diverting  himself,  "that's  not  it.  The  true 
horary  question  is,  What  will  he  do  with  it  ?" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Historian  shows  that,  notwithstanding  the  progressive  spirit 
of  the  times,  a  Briton  is  not  permitted,  without  an  effort,  *'  to 
progress"  according  to  his  own  incliuations. 

Sophy  could  not  sleep.  At  first  she  was  too  happy. 
Without  being  conscious  of  any  degradation  in  her  lot 
among  the  itinerant  artists  of  Mr.  Rugge's  exhibition 
(how  could  she,  when  her  beloved  and  revered  protector 
had  been  one  of  those  artists  for  years  ?),  yet,  instinctively, 
she  shrunk  from  their  contact.  Doubtless,  while  absorbed 
in  some  stirring  part,  she  forgot  companions,  audience, 
all,  and  enjoyed  what  she  performed — necessarily  enjoyed, 
for  her  acting  was  really  excellent,  and  where  no  enjoy- 
ment there  no  excellence  ;  but  when  the  histrionic  enthu- 
v.asm  was  not  positively  at  work,  she  crept  to  her  grand- 
father with  something  between  loathing  and  terror  of  the 
"  painted  creatures  "  and  her  own  borrowed  tinsel. 

But  more  than  all,  she  felt  acutely  every  indignity  or 
affront  offered  to  Gentleman  Waife.  Heaven  knows  these 
were  not  few;  and  to  escape  from  such  a  life  —  to  be  with 


60  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

her  grandfather  alone,  have  him  all  to  herself  to  tend  and 
to  pet,  to  listen  to,  and  to  prattle  with,  seemed  to  her  the 
consummation  of  human  felicity.  Ah,  but  should  she  be 
all  alone  ?  Just  as  she  was  lulling  herself  into  a  doze, 
that  question  seised  and  roused  her.  And  then  it  was  not 
happiness  that  kept  her  waking  —  it  was  what  is  less  rare 
in  the  female  breast  —  curiosity.  Who  was  to  be  the  mys- 
terious third,  to  whose  acquisition  the  three  pounds  were 
evidently  to  be  devoted  ?  What  new  face  had  she  pur- 
chased by  the  loan  of  her  own  ?  Not  the  Pig-faced  Lady, 
nor  the  Spotted  Boy.  Could  it  be  the  Norfolk  Giant,  or 
the  Calf  with  Two  Heads  ?  Horrible  idea  !  Monstrous 
phantasmagoria  began  to  stalk  before  her  eyes ;  and,  to 
charm  them  away,  with  great  fervor  she  fell  to  saying  her 
prayers  —  an  act  of  devotion  which  she  had  forgotten,  in 
her  excitement,  to  perform  before  resting  her  head  on  her 
pillow  —  but,  could  we  peep  into  the  soft  spirit- world 
around  us,  we  might  find  the  omission  not  noted  down  in 
very  dark  characters  by  the  recording  angel. 

That  act  over,  her  thoughts  took  a  more  comely  aspect 
than  had  been  worn  by  the  preceding  phantasies,  reflected 
Lionel's  kind  looks,  and  repeated  his  gentle  word.?. 
"  Heaven  bless  him  I "  she  said,  with  emfhasis,  as  a  supple- 
ment to  the  habitual  prayers  ;  and  then  tears  gathered  to 
her  grateful  eyelids,  for  she  was  one  of  those  beings  whose 
tears  come  slow  from  sorrow,  quick  from  affection.  And 
80  the  gray  dawn  found  her  still  wakeful,  and  she  rose, 
bathed  her  cheeks  in  the  cold  fresh  water,  and  drew  them 
forth  with  a  glow  like  Hebe's.     Dressing  herself  with  the 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  61 

quiet  activity  which  characterised  all  her  movements,  she 
then  opened  the  casement  and  inhaled  the  air.  All  was 
still  in  the  narrow  lane,  the  shops  yet  unclosed.  But  on 
the  still  trees  behind  the  shops,  the  birds  were  beginning 
to  stir  and  chirp.  Chanticleer,  from  some  neighboring 
yard,  rung  out  his  brisk  reveilUe.  Pleasant  English  sum- 
mer dawn  in  the  phasant  English  country  village.  She 
stretched  her  graceful  neck  far  from  the  casement,  trying 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  blue  river.  She  had  seen  its 
majestic  flow  on  the  day  they  had  arrived  at  the  fair,  and 
longed  to  gain  its  banks ;  then  her  servitude  to  the  stage 
forbade  her.  Now  she  was  to  be  free  I  Oh,  joy  I  Now 
she  might  have  her  careless  hours  of  holiday ;  and,  for- 
getful of  Waife's  warning  that  their  vocation  must  be  plied 
in  towns,  she  let  her  fancy  run  riot  amidst  visions  of  green  * 
fields  and  laughing  waters,  and  in  fond  delusion  gathered 
the  daisies  and  chased  the  butterflies.  Changeling  trans- 
ferred into  that  lowest  world  of  Art  from  the  cradle  of 
simple  Nature,  her  human  child's  heart  yearned  for  the 
human  childlike  delights.  All  children  love  the  country, 
the  flowers,  the  sward,  the  birds,  the  butterflies,  or,  if  some 
do  not,  despair,  oh.  Philanthropy,  of  their  after-lives  I 

She  closed  the  window,  smiling  to  herself,  stole  through 
the  adjoining  door- way,  and  saw  that  her  grandfather  was 
still  asleep.  Then  she  busied  herself  in  putting  the  little 
sitting-room  to  rights,  reset  the  table  for  the  morning  meal, 
watered  the  stocks,  and,  finally,  took  uj)  the  crystal  and 
looked  into  it  with  awe,  wondering  why  the  Cobbler  could 
see  so  much,  and  she  only  the  distorted  reflection  of  her 

I.  — 6 


62  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

own  face.  So  interested,  however,  for  once,  did  she  be 
come  ill  the  inspection  of  this  mystic  globe  that  she  did 
not  notice  the  dawn  pass  into  broad  daylight,  nor  hear  a 
voice  at  the  door  below  —  nor,  in  short,  take  into  cognition 
the  external  world,  till  a  heavy  tread  shook  the  floor,  and 
then,  starting,  she  beheld  the  Remorseless  Baron,  with  a 
face  black  enough  to  have  darkened  the  crystal  of  Dr.  Dee 
himself. 

"  Ho,  ho  ! "  said  Mr.  Rugge,  in  hissing  accents,  which 
had  often  thrilled  the  threepenny  gallery  with  anticipative 
horror.  "  Rebellious,  eh  ?  —  won't  come  ?  Where's  your 
grandfather,  baggage?" 

Sophy  let  fall  the  crystal  —  a  mercy  it  was  not  broken 
—  and  gazed  vacantly  on  the  Baron. 

"Your  vile  scamp  of  a  grandfather?" 

Sophy  (with  spirit)  "  He  is  not  vile.  You  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  yourself  speaking  so,  Mr.  Rugge  I " 

Here,  simultaneously,  Mr.  Waife  hastily,  endued  in  his 
gray  dressing-gown,  presented  himself  at  the  aperture  of 
the  bedroom  door,  and  the  Cobbler  on  the  threshold  of 
the  sitting-room.  The  Comedian  stood  mute,  trusting, 
perhaps,  to  the  imposing  effect  of  his  attitude.  The  Cob- 
bler, yielding  to  the  impulse  of  untheatric  man,  put  his 
head  doggedly  on  one  side,  and,  with  both  hands  on  his 
hips,  said, 

"  Civil  words  to  my  lodgers,  master,  or  out  you  go  !  " 

The  Remorseless  Baron  glared  vindictively  first  at  one, 
and  then  at  the  other;  at  length  he  strode  up  to  Waife, 
and  said,  with  a  withering  grin,  "  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you  ;  shall  I  say  it  before  your  landlord  ?  " 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  63 

The  comsdian  waved  his  hand  to  the  Cobbler 

"  Leave  us,  my  friend  ;  I  shall  not  require  you.  Step 
this  way,  Mr.  Rugge. "  Rugge  entered  the  bedroom,  and 
Waife  closed  the  door  behind  them. 

"  Anan,"  quoth  the  Cobbler,  scratching  his  head.  "  1 
don't  quite  take  your  grandfather's  giving  in.  British 
ground  here  I  But  your  ascendant  can  not  surely  be  in 
such  malignant  conjunction  with  that  obstreperous  tyrant 
as  to  bind  you  to  him  hand  and  foot.  Let's  see  what  the 
Crystal  thinks  of  it.  Take  it  up  gently,  and  come  down 
stairs  with  me." 

"  Please,  no  ;  I'll  stay  near  grandfather,"  said  Sophy 
resolutely.  "  He  shan't  be  left  helpless  with  that  rude 
man." 

The  Cobbler  could  not  help  smiling.  "  Lord  love  you,' 
said  he  ;  "you  have  a  spirit  of  your  own,  and,  if  you  were 
my  wife,  I  should  be  afraid  of  you.  But  I  won't  stand 
here  eaves-dropping  ;  mayhap  your  grandfather  has  se- 
crets I'm  not  to  hear  ;  call  me  if  I'm  wanted."  He  de- 
scended. Sophy,  with  less  noble  disdain  of  cures-drop- 
ping, stood  in  the  center  of  the  room,  holding  her  breath 
to  listen.  •  She  heard  no  sound  —  she  had  half  a  mind  to 
put  her  ear  to  the  key-hole,  but  that  seemed,  even  to  her, 
a  mean  thing,  if  not  absolutely  required  by  the  necessity 
of  the  case.  So  there  she  still  stood,  her  head  bent  down, 
her  finger  raised  :  oh  that  Yance  could  have  bo  painted 
herl 


64  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 


CHAPTER   X. 

Showing  the  causes  why  Men  and  Nations,  when  one  Man  or 
Nation  wishes  to  get  for  its  own  arbitrary  purposes  what  the 
other  Man  or  Nation  does  not  desire  to  part  with,  are  apt  to 
ignore  the  mild  precepts  of  Christianity,  shock  the  sentiments, 
and  upset  the  theories  of  Peace  Societies. 

**Am  I  to  understand,"  said  Mr.  Rugge,  in  a  whisper, 
when  Waife  had  drawn  him  to  the  farthest  end  of  the 
inner  room,  with  the  bed-curtains  between  their  position 
and  the  door  deadening  the  sound  of  their  voices  —  "am 
I  to  understand  that,  after  my  taking  you  and  that  child 
to  my  theater  out  of  charity,  and  at  your  own  request, 
you  are  going  to  quit  me  without  warning — French  leave 
—  is  that  British  conduct?" 

"  Mr.  Rugge,"  replied  Waife,  deprecatingly,  "  I  have 
no  engagement  with  you  beyond  an  experimental  trial. 
We  were  free  on  both  sides  for  three  months  —  you  to 
dismiss  us  any  day,  we  to  leave  you.  The  experiment 
does  not  please  us;  we  thank  you,  and  depart." 

Rugge.  "  That  is  not  the  truth.  I  said  /  was  free  to 
dismis^  you  both  if  the  child  did  not  suit.  You,  poor 
helpless  creature,  could  be  of  no  use.  But  I  never  heard 
you  say  you  were  to  be  free,  too.  Stand  to  reason  not  1 
Put  my  engagements  at  a  Waife's  mercy  !  —  I,  Lorenzo 
Rugge  I — stuff  1     But  I'm  a  just  man,  and  a  liberal  man 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  65 

and  if  you  think  you  ought  to  have  a  higher  salary — if 
this  ungrateful  proceeding  is  only,  as  I  take  it,  a  strike 
for  wages  —  I  will  meet  you.  Julia  Araminta  does  play 
better  than  I  could  have  supposed  ;  and  I'll  conclude  an 
engagement  on  good  terms,  as  we  were  to  have  done  if 
the  experiment  answered,  for  three  years." 

Waife  shook  his  head.  "You  are  very  good,  Mr 
Rugge,  but  it  is  not  a  strike.  My  little  girl  does  not 
like  the  life  at  any  price ;  and  since  she  supports  me,  I 
am  bound  to  please  her.  Besides,"  said  the  actor,  with 
a  stiflfer  manner,  "you  have  broken  faith  with  me.  It 
was  fully  understood  that  I  was  to  appear  no  more  on 
your  stage ;  all  my  task  was  to  advise  with  you  in  the 
performances,  remodel  the  plays,  help  in  the  stage-man- 
agement ;  and  you  took  advantage  of  my  penury,  and, 
when  I  asked  for  a  small  advance,  insisted  on  forcing 
these  relics  of  what  I  was  upon  the  public  pity.  Enough 
—  we  part.     I  bear  no  malice." 

Rugge.  "  Oh,  don^t  you  ?  No  more  do  I.  But  I  am 
a  Briton,  and  I  have  the  spirit  of  one.  You  had  better 
not  make  an  enemy  of  me." 

Waife.  "  I  am  above  the  necessity  of  making  enemies. 
I  have  an  enemy  ready  made  in  myself." 

Rugge  placed  a  strong  bony  hand  upon  the  cripple'a 
arm.  "  I  dare  say  you  have  I  A  bad  conscience,  Sir. 
Hew  would  you  like  your  past  life  looked  into  and  blab- 
bed out?" 

Gentleman  Waife   (mournfully).     "  The  last  foui 
years  of  it  have  been  spent  in  your  service,  Mr.  Rugge. 
6*  E 


66  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

If  their  record  had  been  blabbed  out  for  ray  benefit,  there 
would  not  have  been  a  dry  eye  in  the  house." 

RuGGE,  "  I  disdain  your  sneer.  When  a  scorpion 
nursed  at  my  bosom  sneers  at  me,  I  leave  it  to  its  own 
reflections.  But  I  don't  speak  of  the  years  in  which  that 
scorpion  has  been  enjoying  a  salary  and  smoking  car  aster 
at  my  expense.  I  refer  to  an  earlier  dodge  in  its  check- 
ered existence.  Ha,  Sir,  you  wince  I  I  suspect .  I  can 
find  out  something  about  you  which  would — " 

Waife  (fiercely).     ''  Would  what  ?  •' 

RuGGE.  "Oh,  lower  your  tone,  Sir  —  no  bullying  me. 
I  suspect !  I  have  good  reason  for  suspicion  ;  and  if  you 
sneak  off  in  this  way,  and  cheat  me  out  of  my  property 
in  Julia  Araminta,  I  will  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  prove 
what  I  suspect.  Look  to  it,  slight  man  !  Come,  I  don't 
wish  to  quarrel ;  make  it  up,  and"  (drawing  out  his 
pocket-book)  "  if  you  want  cash  down,  and  will  have  an 
engagement  in  black  and  white  for  three  years  for  Julia 
Araminta,  you  may  squeeze  a  good  sum  out  of  me,  and 
go  yourself  where  you  please  ;  you'll  never  be  troubled 
by  me      What  I  want  is  the  girl." 

All  the  actor  laid  aside,  Waife  growled  out,  "  And 
bang  me.  Sir,  if  you  shall  have  the  girl ! " 

At  this  moment  Sophy  opened  the  door  wide,  and  en 
lered  boldly.  She  had  heard  her  grandfather's  voice 
raised,  though  its  hoarse  tones  did  not  allow  her  to  dis- 
tinguish his  words.  She  was  alarmed  for  him.  She  came 
in,  his  guardian  fairy,  to  protect  him  from  the  oppressor 
of  six  feet  high.     Rugge's  arm  was  raised,  not  indeed  to 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  87 

Btrike,  but  rather  to  declaim.  Sophy  slid  between  him 
and  her  grandfather,  and  clinging  round  the  latter,  flung 
out  her  own  arm,  the  forefinger  raised  menacingly  toward 
the  Remorseless  Baron.  How  you  would  have  clapped 
if  you  had  seen  her  so  at  Covent  Garden.  But  I'll  swear 
the  child  did  not  know  she  was  acting.  Kugge  did,  and 
was  struck  with  admiration  and  regretful  rage  at  the  idea 
of  losing  her. 

"Bravo!"  said  he,  involuntarily.  "Come  —  come, 
Waife,  look  at  her  —  she  was  born  for  the  stage.  My 
heart  swells  with  pride.  She  is  my  property,  morally 
speaking  ;  make  her  so  legally — and  hark,  in  your  ear — 
fifty  pounds.  Take  me  in  the  humor.  Golgonda  openb 
—  fifty  pounds  I  " 

"No,"  said  the  vagrant. 

"Well,"  said  Rugge,  sullenly,  "let  her  speak  for  her 
self." 

"Speak,  child.  You  don't  wish  to  return  to  Mr. 
Rugge  —  and  without  me,  too  —  do  you,  Sophy?" 

"  Without  you,  Qrandy  1     I'd  rather  die  first." 

"  You  hear  her ;  all  is  settled  between  us.  You  havo 
nad  our  services  up  to  last  night ;  you  have  paid  us  up 
to  last  night ;  and  so  good-morning  to  you,  Mr.  Rugge." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  the  manager,  softening  his  voice 
as  much  as  he  could,  "do  consider.  You  shall  be  so 
made  of,  without  that  stupid  old  man.  You  think  me 
cross,  but  'tis  he  who  irritates  and  puts  me  out  of  temper. 
I'm  uncommon  fond  of  children.  I  had  a  babe  of  my 
own  once— upon  my  honor  I  had — and  if  it  had  not  been 


63  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

for  convulsions,  caused  by  teething,  I  should  be  a  fathei 
Btill.  Supply  to  me  the  place  of  that  beloved  babe.  You 
shall  have  such  fine  dresses;  all  new  —  choose  'em  your- 
self—  minced  veal  and  raspberry  tarts  for  dinner  every 
Sunday.  In  three  years,  under  my  care,  you  will  become 
a  great  actress,  and  make  your  fortune,  and  marry  a  lord 
— lords  go  out  of  their  wits  for  great  actresses — whereas, 
with  him,  what  will  you  do  ?  Drudge,  and  rot,  and 
starve ;  and  he  can't  live  long,  and  then  where  will  you 
be  ?  'Tis  a  shame  to  hold  her  so,  you  idle  old  vagabond." 

"  I  don't  hold  her,"  said  Waife,  trying  to  push  her  away. 
"  There's  something  in  what  the  man  says.  Choose  for 
yourself,  Sophy." 

Sophy  (suppressing  a  sob).  "  How  can  you  have  the 
heart  to  talk  so,  Grandy  ?  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Rugge,  you 
are  a  bad  man,  and  I  hate  you,  and  all  about  you  —  and 
I'll  stay  with  grandfather — and  I  don't  care  if  I  do  starve 
—he  shan't  I" 

Mr.  Rugge  (clapping  both  hands  on  the  crown  of  hia 
hat,  and  striding  to  the  door).  "  William  Waife,  beware  I 
'Tis  done  1  I'm  your  enemy  I  As  for  you,  too  dear  but 
abandoned  infant,  stay  with  him.  You'll  find  out  very 
soon  who  and  what  he  is  —  your  pride  will  have  a  fall, 
when  —  " 

Waife  sprang  forward,  despite  his  lameness  —  both  his 
fists  clenched,  his  one  eye  ablaze ;  his  broad,  burly  torso 
confronted  and  daunted  the  stormy  manager.  Taller  and 
younger  though  Rugge  was,  he  cowered  before  the  crip- 
ple he  had  so  long  taunted  and  humbled.     The  words 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  69 

stood  arrested  on  his  tongue.  "Leave  the  room  in- 
stantly I "  thundered  the  actor,  in  a  voice  no  longer 
broken.  "Blacken  my  name  before  that  child  by  one 
word,  and  I  will  dash  the  next  down  your  throat  I " 

Rugge  rushed  to  the  door,  and  keeping  it  ajar  between 
Waife  and  himself,  he  then  thrust  in  his  head,  hissing 
forth,  "Fly,  caitiff,  fly  I  My  revenge  shall  track  your 
secret,  and  place  you  in  my  power.  Juliet  Ararainta  shall 
yet  be  mine  I  "  With  these  awful  words  the  Remorseles? 
Baron  cleared  the  stairs  in  two  bounds,  and  was  out  of 
the  house. 

Waife  smiled,  contemptuously.  But  as  the  street-door 
clanged  on  the  form  of  the  angry  manager,  the  color 
faded  from  the  old  man's  face.  Exhausted  by  the  excite- 
ment he  had  gone  through,  he  sank  on  a  chair,  and  with 
one  quick  gasp  as  for  breath,  fainted  away. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

progress  of  the  Fine  Arts.  —  Biographical  Anecdotes. — Fluctua- 
tions in  the  Value  of  Money  —  Speculative  Tendencies  of  the 
Times. 

Whatevee  the  shock  which  the  brutality  of  the  Re- 
morseless Baron  inflicted  on  the  nervous  system  of  the 
persecuted  but  triumphant  Bandit,  it  had  certainly  sub- 
sided by  the  time  Yance  and  Lionel  entered  Waife's 
apartment,  for  they  found  grandfather  and  grandchild 


70  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

seated  near  the  open  window,  at  the  corner  of  the  table 
(on  which  they  had  made  room  for  their  operations  by 
the  removal  of  the  carved  cocoanut,  the  crystal  egg,  and! 
the  two  flower-pots),  eagerly  engaged,  with  many  a 
silvery  laugh  from  the  lips  of  Sophy,  in  the  game  of 
dominoes. 

Mr.  Waife  had  been  devoting  himself,  for  the  last  hour 
uud  more,  to  the  instruction  of  Sophy  in  the  mysteries 
of  that  intellectual  amusement,  and  such  pains  did  he 
take,  and  so  impressive  were  his  exhortations,  that  his 
happy  pupil  could  not  help  thinking  to  herself  that  this 
was  the  new  art  upon  which  Waife  depended  for  their 
future  livelihood.  She  sprang  up,  however,  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  visitors,  her  face  beaming  with  grateful 
smiles  ;  and,  running  to  Lionel,  and  taking  him  by  the 
hand,  while  she  courtesied  with  more  respect  to  Yance, 
she  exclaimed,  "  We  are  free  !  thanks  to  you  —  thanks  to 
you  both  I     He  is  gone  I     Mr.  Rugge  is  gone  ! " 

"  So  I  saw  on  passing  the  green  ;  stage  and  all,"  said 
Vance,  while  Lionel  kissed  the  child  and  pressed  her  to 
his  side.  It  is  astonishing  how  paternal  he  felt  —  how 
much  she  had  crept  into  his  heart. 

"  Pray,  Sir,"  asked  Sophy,  timidly,  glancing  to  Yance, 
"has  the  Norfolk  Giant  gone  too?" 

Yance.  "  I  fancy  so  —  all  the  shows  were  either  gone 
or  going." 

Sophy.  "The  Calf  with  Two  Heads?" 

Yance.  "Do  you  regret  it?" 

Sophy.  "Oh.  dear,  no." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  71 

Waife,  who,  after  a  profound  bow,  and  a  cheery  "  Good- 
day,  gentlemen,"  had  hitherto  remained  silent,  putting 
away  the  dominoes,  now  said — "  I  suppose,  Sir,  you  would 
like  at  once  to  begin  your  sketch  ?  ** 

Yance.  "  Yes ;  I  have  brought  all  my  tools — see,  even 
the  canvas.  I  wish  it  were  larger,  but  it  is  all  I  have 
with  me  of  that  material — 'tis  already  stretched — just  let 
me  arrange  the  light." 

Waife.  "  If  you  don't  want  me,  gentlemen,  I  will  take 
the  air  for  half  an  hour  or  so.  In  fact,  I  may  now  feel 
free  to  look  after  my  investment." 

Sophy  (whispering  Lionel).  "  You  are  sure  the  Calf 
has  gone  as  well  as  the  Norfolk  Giant  ? " 

Lionel  wonderingly  replied  that  he  thought  so  ;  and 
Waife  disappeared  into  his  room,  whence  he  soon  emerged, 
having  doffed  his  dressing-gown  for  a  black  coat,  by  no 
means  threadbare,  and  well  brushed.  Hat,  stick,  and 
gloves  in  hand,  he  really  seemed  respectable  —  more  than 
respectable  —  Gentleman  Waife  every  inch  of  him  ;  and 
saying,  "  Look  your  best,  Sophy,  and  sit  still,  if  you  can," 
nodded  pleasantly  to  the  three,  and  hobbled  down  the 
stairs.  Sophy — whom  Yance  had  just  settled  into  a  chair, 
with  her  head  bent  partially  down  (three  quarters),  as  the 
artist  had  released 

'*  The  loose  train  of  her  amber-flowing  hair," 
and  was  contemplating  aspect  and  position  with  a  painter's 
meditative  eye  —  started  up,  to  his  great  discomposure, 
aLd  rushed  to   the  window.     She  returned  to  her  seat 
w-ith  her  mind  much  relieved.     Waife  was  walking  in  an 


12  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

opposite  direction  to  that  which  led  toward  the  whilome 
quarters  of  the  Norfolk  Giant  and  the  Two-headed  Calf. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Yance,  impatiently,  ''  you  have 
broken  an  idea  in  half.  I  beg  you  will  not  stir  till  I  have 
placed  you — and  then,  if  all  else  of  you  be  still,  you  may 
exercise  your  tongue.     I  give  you  leave  to  talk." 

Sophy  (penitentially).  "  I  am  so  sorry — I  beg  pardon. 
Will  that  do,  Sir?" 

Vance.  "  Head  a  little  more  to  the  right — so.  Titania 
watching  Bottom  asleep.  Will  you  lie  on  the  floor,  Lio- 
nel, and  do  Bottom?" 

Lionel  (indignantly).  "Bottom  !  Have  I  an  ass's 
head?" 

Vance.  "  Immaterial  I  I  can  easily  imagine  that  you 
have  one.  I  want  merely  an  outline  of  figure — something 
sprawling  and  ungainly  " 

Lionel  (sulkily).  "Much  obliged  to  you  —  imagine 
that  too." 

Vance.  "  Don't  be  so  disobliging.  It  is  necessary 
that  she  should  look  fondly  at  something  —  expression  in 
the  eye." 

Lionel  at  once  reclined  himself  incumbent  in  a  position 
as  little  sprawling  and  ungainly  as  he  could  well  contrive. 

Vance.  "  Fancy,  Miss  Sophy,  that  this  young  gentle- 
mai  is  very  dear  to  you.     Have  you  got  a  brother  ?  " 

Sophy.  "Ah  no.  Sir." 

Vance.   "Hum.    But  you  have,  or  have  had,  a  doll?'' 

Sophy.  "  Oh,  yes ;  grandfather  gave  me  one." 

Vance.  "And  you  were  fond  of  that  doll  ? " 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  T3 

Sophy.  "Yery." 

Yance.  "Fancy  that  young  gentleman  is  your  doll 
grown  big  —  that  it  is  asleep,  and  you  are  watching  that 
no  one  hurts  it  —  Mr.  Rugge,  for  instance.  Throw  your 
whole  soul  into  that  thought — ^love  for  doll,  apprehension 
of  Rugge.    Lionel,  keep  still  and  shut  your  eyes  —  do." 

Lionel  (grumbling).  "  I  did  not  come  here  to  be  made 
a  doll  of.'» 

Yaxce.  "  Coax  him  to  be  quiet.  Miss  Sophy,  and  sleep 
peaceably,  or  I  shall  do  him  a  mischief.  I  can  be  a  Rugge 
too,  if  I  am  put  out." 

SopnY  (in  the  softest  tones).  "Do  try  and  sleep,  Sir — 
shall  I  get  you  a  pillow  ? " 

Lionel.  "  No,  thank  you — I'm  very  comfortable  now  " 
(settling  his  head  upon  his  arm,  and  after  one  upward 
glance  toward  Sophy,  the  lids  closed  reluctantly  over  his 
softened  eyes).  A  ray  of  sunshine  came  aslant  through 
the  half-shut  window,  and  played  along  the  boy's  cluster- 
ing hair  and  smooth  pale  cheek.  Sophy's  gaze  rested  on 
him  most  benignly. 

"  Just  so,"  said  Yance  ;  "  and  now  be  silent  till  I  have 
got  the  attitude  and  fixed  the  look." 

The  artist  sketched  away  rapidly  with  a  bold  practised 
hand,  and  all  was  silent  for  about  half  an  hour,  when  he 
said,  "You  may  get  up,  Lionel;  I  have  done  with  you 
for  the  present." 

Sophy.  "And  me,  too  —  may  I  see?" 

Yance.  "  Xo  ;  but  you  may  talk  now.  So  you  had  a 
doll  ?     What  has  become  of  it?" 

L  — T 


T4  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Sophy,  "I  left  it  behind,  Sir.  Grandfather  thought 
it  would  distract  me  from  attending  to  his  lessons,  and 
learning  my  part." 

Yance.  "You  love  your  grandfather  more  than  the 
doll?" 

Sophy.   "  Oh  !  a  thousand  million  million  times  more." 
Yance.  "  He  brought  you  up,  I  suppose.     Have  you 
no  father  —  no  mother  ?  " 

Sophy.  "I  have  only  grandfather." 
Lionel.  "  Have  you  always  lived  with  him  ?  " 
Sophy.  "Dear  me,  no;  I  was  with  Mrs.  Crane  till 
grandfather  came  from  abroad,  and  took  me  away,  and 
put  me  with  some  very  kind  people ;  and  then,  when 
grandfather  had  that  bad  accident,  I  came  to  stay  with 
him,  and  we  have  been  together  ever  since." 

Lionel.  "Was  Mrs.  Crane  no  relation  of  yours  ?" 
Sophy.  "No,  I  suppose  not,  for  she  was  not  kind  —  I 
was  so  miserable;  but  don't  talk  of  it  —  I  forget  that 
now.  I  only  wish  to  remember  from  the  time  grandfather 
took  me  in  his  lap,  and  told  me  to  be  a  good  child,  and 
love  him;  and  I  have  been  happy  ever  since." 

"  You  are  a  dear  good  child,"  said  Lionel,  emphati- 
t-aily,  "and  I  wish  I  had  you  for  my  sister." 

Yance.  "When  your  grandfather  has  received  from 
me  that  exorbitant — not  that  I  grudge  it— sum,  I  should 
like  to  ask.  What  will  he  do  with  it  ?  As  he  said  it  was 
a  secret,  I  must  not  pump  you." 

Sophy,  "What  will  he  do  with  it?  I  should  like  to 
know  too,  Sir ;  but  whatever  it  is,  I  don't  care,  so  long 
as  I  and  grandfather  are  together." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  15 

Here  Waife  re-entered.  "Well,  how  goes  on  the  picture?" 

Yance.  "  Tolerably  for  the  first  sitting ;  I  require  two 
more." 

Waife.  "Certainly;  only  —  only"  (he  drew  aside 
Yance,  and  whispered),  "  only,  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
I  fear  I  shall  want  the  money.  It  is  an  occasion  that 
never  will  occur  again  —  I  would  seize  it." 

Yance.  "Take  the  money,  now." 

Waife,  "  Well,  thank  you.  Sir ;  you  are  sure  now  that 
we  shall  not  run  away  —  and  I  accept  your  kindness  ;  it 
will  make  all  safe." 

Yance,  with  surprising  alacrity,  slipped  the  sovereigns 
into  the  o'd  man's  hand  ;  for,  truth  to  say,  though  thrifty, 
the  Artist  was  really  generous.  His  organ  of  caution 
was  large,  but  that  of  acquisitiveness  moderate.  More- 
over, in  those  moments  when  his  soul  expanded  with  his 
art,  he  was  insensibly  less  alive  to  the  value  of  money. 
And  strange  it  is  that,  though  states  strive  to  fix  for  that 
commodity  the  most  abiding  standards,  yet  the  value  of 
money,  to  the  individual  who  regards  it,  sliifts  and  fluc- 
tuates, goes  up  and  down  half  a  dozen  times  a  day.  For 
my  part,  I  honestly  declare  that  there  are  hours  in  the 
twenty-four — such,  for  instance,  as  that  just  before  break- 
fast, or  that  succeeding  a  page  of  this  History  in  which  I 
have  been  put  out  of  temper  with  my  performance  and 
myself,  when  any  one  in  want  of  five  shillings  at  my  dis- 
posal would  find  my  value  of  that  sum  put  it  quite  out 
of  his  reach  ;  while  at  other  times — just  after  dinner,  for 
instance,  or  when  I  have  eifected  what  seems  to  me  a 
happy  stroke,  or  a  good  bit  of  color,  in  this  historical 


76  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT. 

composition  — the  value  of  those  five  shillings  is  so  much 
depreciated  that  I  might  be  —  I  think  so,  at  least  —  I 
might  be  almost  tempted  to  give  them  away  for  nothing. 
Under  some  such  mysterious  influences  in  the  money  mar- 
ket, Yance,  therefore,  felt  not  the  loss  of  his  three  sove- 
reigns ;  and,  returning  to  his  easel,  drove  away  Lionel 
and  Sophy,  who  had  taken  that  opportunity  to  gaze  on 
the  canvas. 

*' Don't  do  her  juutice  at  all,"  quoth  Lionel;  "all  the 
features  exaggerated." 

"And  you  pretend  to  paint  1 "  returned  Yance,  in  great 
scorn,  and  throwing- a  cloth  over  his  canvas.  "  To-mor- 
row, Mr.  Waife,  the  same  hour.  Now,  Lionel,  get  your 
hat,  and  come  away." 

Yance  carried  off  the  canvas,  and  Lionel  followed 
slowly.  Sophy  gazed  at  their  departing  forms  from  the 
open  window ;  Waife  stumped  about  the  room,  rubbing 
his  hands  —  "He'll  do,  he'll  do;  I  always  thought  so." 
Sophy  turned  —  "  Who'll  do  ?  —  the  young  gentleman  ? 
Do  what?" 

Waife.  "  The  young  gentleman — as  if  I  was  thinking 
of  him.  Our  new  companion — I  have  been  with  him  this 
last  hour.     Wonderful  natural  gifts." 

Sophy  (ruefully).   "It  is  alive,  then  ? " 

Waife.  "Alive  !  yes,  I  should  think  so." 

Sophy  (half-crying).  "  I'm  very  sorry  ;  I  know  I  shall 
hate  it." 

Tut,  darling  —  get  me  my  pipe — I'm  happy," 

Sophy  (cutting  short  her  fit  of  ill-humor).  "  Are  you  ? 
—  then  I  am,  and  I  will  not  hate  it." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  77 


CHAPTER    XII 

In  which  it  is  shown  that  a  man  does  this  or  declines  to  do  that 
for  reasons  best  known  to  himself — a  reserve  which  is  extremely 
conducive  to  the  social  interests  of  a  community ;  since  the  con- 
jecture into  the  origin  and  nature  of  those  reasons  stimulates  the 
inquiring  faculties,  and  furnishes  the  staple  of  modern  conversa- 
tion. And  as  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that,  if  their  neighbors  left 
them  nothing  to  guess  at,  three-fourths  of  civilized  humankind, 
male  or  female,  would  have  nothing  to  talk  about ;  so  we  can  not 
too  gratefully  encourage  that  needful  curiosity,  termed,  by  the 
inconsiderate,  tittle-tattle  or  scandal,  which  saves  the  vast  ma- 
jority of  our  species  from  being  reduced  to  the  degraded  condi- 
tion of  dumb  animals. 

The  next  day  the  sitting  was  renewed  ;  but  Waife  did 
not  go  out,  and  the  conversation  was  a  little  more  re- 
strained ;  or  rather,  Waife  had  the  larger  share  in  it. 
The  comedian,  when  he  pleased,  could  certainly  be  very 
entertaining.  It  was  not  so  much  in  what  he  said,  as  his 
manner  of  saying  it.  He  was  a  strange  combination 
of  suiden  extremes,  at  one  while  on  a  tone  of  easy  but 
not  undignified  familiarity  with  his  visitors,  as  if  their 
equal  in  position,  their  superior  in  years  ;  then  abruptly, 
humble,  deprecating,  almost  obsequious,  almost  servile ; 
and  then,  again,  jerked,  as  it  were,  into  pride  and  stiffness, 
falling  back,  as  if  the  effort  were  impossible,  into  meek  de- 
jection. Siill,  the  prevalent  character  of  the  man's  mood 
and  talk  was  social,  quaint,  cheerful.  Evidently  he  was, 
7* 


78  ^£IATWILLHEDOWITHIT? 

by  original  temperament,  a  droll  and  joyous  humorist,  witli 
high  animal  spirits ;  and,  withal,  an  infantine  simplicity 
at  times,  like  the  clever  man  who  never  learns  the  world, 
and  is  always  taken  in. 

A  circumstance,  trifling  in  itself,  but  suggestive  of 
speculation  either  as  to  the  character  or  antecedent  cir- 
cumstances of  Gentleman  Waife^  did  not  escape  Vance's 
observation.  Since  his  rupture  with  Mr.  Rugge,  there 
was  a  considerable  amelioration  in  that  affection  of  the 
trachea  which,  while  his  engagement  with  Rugge  lasted, 
had  rendered  the  comedian's  dramatic  talents  unavailable 
on  the  stage.  He  now  expressed  himself  without  the 
pathetic  hoarseness  or  cavernous  wheeze  which  had  pre- 
viously thrown  a  wet  blanket  over  his  efforts  at  discourse. 
But  Yance  put  no  very  stern  construction  on  the  dis- 
simulation which  this  change  seemed  to  denote.  Since 
Waife  was  still  one-eyed  and  a  cripple,  he  might  very 
excusably  shrink  from  reappearance  on  the  stage,  and 
affect  a  third  infirmity  to  save  his  pride  from  the  exhibi- 
tion of  the  two  infirmities  that  were  genuine. 

That  which  most  puzzled  Yance  was  that  which  had 
most  puzzled  the  Cobbler  —  What  could  the  man  once 
have  been  ?  —  how  fallen  so  low  !  — for  fall  it  was  !  that 
was  clear.  The  painter,  though  not  himself  of  patrician 
extraction,  had  been  much  in  the  best  society.  He  had 
been  a  petted  favorite  in  great  houses.  He  had  traveled. 
He  had  seen  the  world.  He  had  the  habits  and  the 
instincts  of  good  society. 

Now,  in  what  the  French  term  the  beau  monde,  there 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  79 

are  little  traits  tliat  reveal  those  who  have  entered  it  — 
certain  tricks  of  phrase,  certain  modes  of  exDression  — 
even  the  pronunciation  of  familiar  words,  even  the  modu- 
lation of  aii  accent.  A  man  of  the  most  refined  bearing 
may  not  ht^re  these  peculiarities  ;  a  man,  otherwise  coarse 
aid  brusque  in  his  manner,  may.  The  slang  of  the  beau 
monde  is  quite  apart  from  the  code  of  high-breeding. 
Xow  and  then,  something  in  Waife's  talk  seemed  to  show 
that  he  had  lighted  on  that  beau- world  ;  now  and  then, 
that  something  wholly  vanished.  So  that  Yance  might 
have  said,  "  He  has  been  admitted  there,  not  inhabited  it." 

Yet  Yance  could  not  feel  sure,  after  all;  comedians 
are  such  takes-in.  But  was  the  man,  by  the  profession 
of  his  earlier  life,  a  comedian  ?  Yance  asked  the  question 
adroitly. 

"  You  must  have  taken  to  the  stage  young  ?  "  said  he. 

"  The  stage  !  "  said  Waife.  "  If  you  mean  the  public 
stage  —  no,  I  have  acted  pretty  often  in  youth,  even  in 
childhood,  to  amuse  others  ;  never  professionally  to  sup- 
port myself,  till  Mr.  Kugge  civilly  engaged  me  four  years 
ago." 

"  Is  it  possible  —  with  your  excellent  education  !  But 
pardon  me  ;  I  have  hinted  my  surprise  at  your  late  voca- 
tion before,  and  it  displeased  you." 

i'  Displeased  me  ! "  said  Waife,  with  an  abject,  depressed 
manner  ;  "  I  hope  I  said  nothing  that  would  have  mis 
become  a  poor  broken  vagabond  like  me.  I  am  no  prince 
in  disguise — a  good-for-nothing  varlet,  who  should  be  too 
grateful  to  have  something  to  keep  himself  from  a  dung-hill. " 


80  WUAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Lionel.  "  Don't  talk  so.  And  but  for  your  accident 
you  might  now  be  the  great  attraction  on  the  metropolitan 
stage.     Who  does  not  respect  a  really  fine  actor  ?  " 

Waife  (gloomily).  "  The  Metropolitan  Stage  I  I  was 
talked  into  it ;  I  am  glad  even  of  the  accident  that  saved 
me  —  say  no  more  of  that,  no  more  of  that.  But  I  have 
spoiled  your  sitting  :  Sophy,  you  see,  has  left  her  chair." 

"  I  have  done  for  to-day,"  said  Yance ;  "  to-morrow, 
and  my  task  is  ended." 

Lionel  came  up  to  Yance  and  whispered  to  him ,  the 
painter,  after  a  pause,  nodded  silently,  and  then  said  to 
Waife  — 

"We  are  going  to  enjoy  the  fine  weather  on  the 
Thames  (after  I  have  put  away  these  things),  and  shall 
return  to  our  inn  —  not  far  hence  —  to  sup,  at  eight 
o'clock.  Supper  is  our  principal  meal  —  we  rarely  spoil 
our  days  by  the  ceremonial  of  a  formal  dinner.  Will  you 
do  us  the  favor  to  sup  with  us  ?  Our  host  has  a  wonder- 
ful whisky,  which,  when  raw,  is  Glenlivat,  but,  refined 
into  toddy,  is  nectar.  Bring  your  pipe,  and  let  us  hear 
John  Kemble  again." 

Waife's  face  lighted  up.  ''  You  are  most  kind  ;  nothing 
I  should  like  so  much.     But — "  and  the  light  fled,  the 

face  darkened  —  "  but  no  ;  I  can  not — you  don't  know 

that  is  —  I  —  I  have  made  a  vow  to  myself  to  decline 
all  such  temptations.     I  humbly  beg  you'll  excuse  me." 

Yance.  "  Temptations  I  of  what  kind  —  the  whisky- 
toddy?" 

Waife  (puffing  away  a  sigh).  Ah,  yes ;  whisky-toddy 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  81 

if  you  please.  Perhaps  I  once  loved  a  glass  too  well 
aiid  could  not  resist  a  glass  too  much  now ;  and  if  I  oncu 
broke  the  rule,  and  became  a  tippler,  what  would  happen 
to  Juliet  Araminta  ?     For  her  sake,  don't  press  me  ?  " 

"Oh,  do  go,  Grandj  ;  he  never  drinks  —  never  any 
thing  stronger  than  tea,  I  assure  you.  Sir ;  it  can't  be 
that  " 

"  It  is,  silly  child,  and  nothing  else,"  said  Waife  posi- 
tively—  drawing  himself  up.     "Excuse  me." 

Lionel  began  brushing  his  hat  with  his  sleeve,  and  his 
face  worked  ;  at  last  he  said,  "  Well,  Sir,  then  may  I  ask 
another  favor  ?  Mr.  Yance  and  I  are  going  to-morrow, 
after  the  sitting,  to  see  Hampton  Court ;  we  have  kept 
that  excursion  to  the  last  before  leaving  these  parts. 
Would  you  and  little  Sophy  come  with  us  in  the  boat  ? 
we  will  have  no  whisky-toddy,  and  we  will  bring  you  both 
safe  home." 

Waife.  "  What — I — what — 1 1  You  are  very  young, 
Sir — a  gentleman  born  and  bred,  I'll  swear ;  and  you  to 
be  seen,  perhaps  by  some  of  your  friends  or  family,  with 
an  old  vagrant  like  me,  in  the  Queen's  palace — the  public 
gardens  1  I  should  be  the  vilest  wretch  if  I  took  such 
advantage  of  your  goodness.  'Pretty  company,'  they 
would  say,  'you  have  got  into.'  With  me  —  with  me  1 
Don't  be  alarmed,  Mr.  Yance  —  not  to  be  thought  of." 

The  young  men  were  deeply  affected. 

"I  can't  accept  that  reason,"  said  Lionel,  tremulously. 
'  Though  I  must  not  presume  to  derange  your  habits. 
But  she  may  go  with  us,  mayn't  she  ?     We'll  take  care 

F 


82  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

of  her,  and  she  is  dressed  so  plainly  and  neatly,  and  looks 
such  a  little  lady "  (turning  to  Vance). 

"Yes,  let  her  come  with  us,"  said  the  artist,  benevo- 
lently ;  though  he  by  no  means  shared  in  Lionel's  enthu- 
siastic desire  for  her  company.  He  thought  she  would 
be  greatly  in  their  way. 

'Heaven  bless  you  both!"   answered  Waife ;   "and 
s'fxB  wants  a  holiday;  she  shall  have  it." 

"  I'd  rather  stay  with  you,  Grandy  ;  you'll  be  so  lone." 
"  No,  I  wish  to  be  out  all  to-morrow — the  investment  1 
I  shall  not  be  alone — making  friends  with  our  future  com- 
panion,  Sophy." 

"And  can  do  without  me  already  ?  —  heigh-ho  1 " 
Vance.  "  So  that's  settled  ;  good-by  to  you." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Inspiring  effect  of  the  Fine  Arts:  the  Vulgar  are  moved  by  their 
exhibition  into  generous  impulses  and  flights  of  fancy,  checked 
by  the  ungracious  severities  of  their  superiors,  as  exemplified 
in  the  instance  of  Cobbler  Merle  and  his  Servant-of- All-Work, 

The  next  day,  perhaps  with  the  idea  of  removing  all 
scruple  from  Sophy's  mind,  Waife  had  already  gone  after 
his  investment  when  the  friends  arrived.  Sophy  at  first 
was  dull  and  dispirited,  but  by  degrees  she  brightened  up  ; 
and  when,  the  sitting  over  and  the  picture  done  (save 
Buch  final  touches  as  Vance  reserved  for  solitary  study), 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  83 

she  was  permitted  to  gaze  at  her  own  effigy,  she  bnrst 
into  exchimations  of  frank  deliglit.  "Am  I  like  that !  is 
it  possible  ?  Oh,  how  beautiful !  Mr.  Merle,  Mr.  Merle, 
Mr.  Merle  ! "  and  running  out  of  the  room  before  Yance 
could  stop  her,  she  returned  with  the  Cobbler,  followed, 
too,  by  a  thin,  gaunt  girl,  whom  he  pompously  called  hi? 
housekeeper,  but  who,  in  sober  truth,  was  servant-of-all- 
work.  Wife  he  had  none — his  horoscope,  he  said,  having 
Saturn  in  square  to  the  Seventh  House,  forbade  him  to 
venture  upon  matrimony.  All  gathered  round  the  pic- 
ture ;  all  admired,  and  with  justice — it  was  a  chef-cVoeuvre. 
Yance  in  his  maturest  day  never  painted  more  charmingly. 
The  three  pounds  proved  to  be  the  best  outlay  of  capital 
he  had  ever  made.  Pleased  with  his  work,  he  was  pleased 
even  with  that  unsophisticated  applause. 

"  You  must  have  Mercury  and  Yenus  very  strongly 
aspected,"  quoth  the  Cobbler ;  "  and  if  you  have  the 
Dragon's  Head  in  the  Tenth  House,  you  may  count  on 
being  much  talked  of  after  you  are  dead." 

"After  I  am  dead  ! — sinister  omen  ! "  said  Yance,  dis- 
composed. "I  have  no  faith  in  artists  who  count  on  be- 
ing talked  of  after  they  are  dead.  Never  knew  a  dauber 
who  did  not  !  But  stand  back  —  time  flies — tie  up  your 
hair — put  ca  your  bonnet,  Titania.  You  have  a  shawl  ? 
— not  tinsel,  I  hope  I — quieter  the  better.  You  stay  and 
see  to  her,  Lionel." 

Said  the  gaunt  servant-of-all-work  to  Mr.  Merle — "I'd 
let  the  gentleman  paint  me,  if  he  likes  it — shall  I  tell  him, 
master  ?  " 


Si  "^HATWILLHEDOWITHIT? 

"  Go  back  to  the  bacon,  foolish  woman.  Why,  he 
gave  £3  for  her  likeness,  'cause  of  her  Benefics  !  But 
you'd  have  to  give  him  three  years'  wages  afore  he'd  look 
you  straight  in  the  face,  'cause,  you  see,  your  Aspects 
are  crooked.  And,"  added  the  Cobbler,  philosophizing, 
"  when  the  Malefics  are  dead  agin  a  girl's  mug,  man  is  so 
constituted  by  natur  that  he  can't  take  to  that  mug  unless 
it  has  a  gold  handle.  Don't  fret,  'tis  not  your  fault :  born 
under  Scorpio — coarse-limbed — dull  complexion  —  Head 
of  the  Dragon  aspected  of — In  fortunes  in  all  four  angles  I" 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

The  Historian  takes  advantage  of  the  summer  hours  vouchsafed  to 
the  present  life  of  Mr.  Waife's  grandchild,  in  order  to  throw  a 
few  gleams  of  light  on  her  past.  He  leads  her  into  the  Palace 
of  our  Kings,  and  moralizes  thereon ;  and  entering  the  Royal 
Gardens,  shows  the  uncertainty  of  Human  Events,  and  the  in- 
security of  British  Laws,  by  the  abrupt  seizure  and  constrained 
deportation  of  an  innocent  and  unforeboding  Englishman. 

Such  a  glorious  afternoon  !  The  capricious  English 
summer  was  so  kind  that  day  to  the  child  and  her  new 
friends  I  When  Sophy's  small  foot  once  trod  the  sward, 
had  she  been  really  Queen  of  the  Green  People,  sward 
and  footstep  could  not  more  joyously  have  met  cogether. 
The  grasshopper  bounded,  in. fearless  trust,  upon  the  hem 
of  her  frock  ;  she  threw  herself  down  on  the  grass,  and 
caught  him,  but,  oh,  so  tenderly;    and  the  gay  insect, 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  85 

dear  to  poet  and  fairy,  seemed  to  look  at  lier  from  that 
quaint,  sharp  face  of  his  with  sagacious  recognition,  rest- 
ing calmly  on  the  palm  of  her  pretty  hand  ;  then  when  he 
sprang  off,  little  moth-like  butterflies  peculiar  to  the  mar- 
gins of  running  waters,  quivered  up  from  the  herbage, 
fluttering  round  her.  And  there,  in  front,  lay  the  Thames, 
glittering  through  the  willows,  Yauce  getting  ready  the 
boat,  Lionel  seated  by  her  side,  a  child  like  herself,  his 
pride  of  incipient  manhood  all  forgotten ;  happy  in  hei 
glee  —  she  loving  him  for  the  joy  she  felt  —  and  blending 
his  image  evermore  in  her  remembrance  with  her  first 
summer  holiday — with  sunny  beams — glistening  leaves — 
warbling  birds  —  fairy  wings  —  sparkling  waves.  Oh  to 
live  so  in  a  child's  heart — innocent,  blessed,  angel-like — 
better,  better  than  the  troubled  reflection  upon  woman's 
later  thoughts ;  better  than  that  mournful  illusion,  over 
which  tears  so  bitter  are  daily  shed  —  better  than  First 
Love !  They  entered  the  boat.  Sophy  had  never,  to  the 
best  of  her  recollection,  been  in  a  boat  before.  All  was 
new  to  her  ;  the  life-like  speed  of  the  little  vessel  —  that 
world  of  cool,  green  weeds,  with  the  fish  darting  to  and 
fro  —  the  musical  chime  of  oars  —  those  distant,  stately 
swans.     She  was  silent  now  —  her  heart  was  very  full. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Sophy  ?  "  asked  Leonard, 
resting  on  the  oar. 

"Thinking  —  I  was  not  thinking." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  —  feeling,  I  suppose." 

"  Feeling  what  ?  " 
I.— 8 


86  WHAT     WILL     Ur     DO     WITH    IT? 

"As  if  between  sleep  and  waking  —  as  the  water  per- 
haps feels,  with  the  sunlight  on  it  ! " 

"Poetical,"  said  Yance,  who,  somewhat  of  a  poet  him- 
self, naturally  sneered  at  poetical  tendencies  in  others. 
"  But  not  so  bad  in  its  way.  Ah,  have  I  hurt  your  Vanity  ? 
there  are  tears  in  your  eyes." 

"  No,  Sir,"  said  Sophy,  falteringly.  "  But  I  was  think- 
ing then." 

"Ah,"  said  the  artist,  "that's  the  worst  of  it;  after 
feeling  ever  comes  thought  —  what  was  yours?" 

"  I  was  sorry  poor  grandfather  was  not  here,  that's  all." 

"  It  was  not  our  fault ;  we  pressed  him  cordially,"  said 
Lionel. 

"  You  did,  indeed,  Sir — thank  you  !  And  I  don't  know 
why  he  refused  you."  The  young  men  exchanged  com- 
passionate glances. 

Lionel  then  sought  to  make  her  talk  of  her  past  life  — 
tell  him  more  of  Mrs.  Crane.     Who  and  what  was  she  ? 

Sophy  could  not,  or  would  not,  tell.  The  remembrances 
were  painful ;  she  had  evidently  tried  to  forget  them.  And 
the  people  with  whom  Waife  had  placed  her,  and  who  had 
been  kind  ? 

The  Miss  Burtons  —  and  they  kept  a  day-school,  and 
taught  Sophy  to  read,  write,  and  cipher.  They  lived  near 
London,  in  a  lane  opening  on  a  great  common,  with  a 
green  rail  before  the  house,  and  had  a  good  many  pupns, 
and  kept  a  tortoise-shell  cat  and  a  canary.  Not  much  to 
enlighten  her  listener  did  Sophy  impart  here. 

And  now  they  neared  that  stately  palace,  rich  in  asso- 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  8T 

ciatious  of  storm  and  splendor.  The  grand  Cardinal — • 
the  irou-clad  Protector ;  Dutch  William  of  the  imniortai 
memory,  whom  we  try  so  hard  to  like,  and,  in  spite  of  the 
great  Whig  historian,  that  Titian  of  English  prose,  can 
only  frigidly  respect.  Hard  task  for  us  Britons  to  like  a 
Dutchman  who  dethrones  his  father-in-law  and  drinks 
schnaps.  Prejudice,  certainly  ;  but  so  it  is.  Harder  still 
to  like  Dutch  William's  unfilial  Frau  !  Like  Queen  Mary  I 
I  could  as  soon  like  Queen  Goneril  I  Romance  flies  from 
the  prosperous,  phlegmatic  J^neas ;  flies  from  his  plump 
Lavinia,  his  "  fidus  Achates,"  Bentiuck,  flies  to  follow  the 
poor,  deserted,  fugitive  Stuart,  with  all  his  sins  upon  his 
head.  Kings  have  no  rights  divine,  except  when  deposed 
and  fallen  ;  they  are  then  invested  with  the  awe  that  be- 
longs to  each  solemn  image  of  mortal  vicissitude — Vicis- 
situde that  startles  the  Epicurean,  "  insainentis  sapientice 
consuUus,^^  and  strikes  from  his  careless  lyre  the  notes 
that  attest  a  God  I  Some  proud  shadow  chases  another 
from  the  throne  of  Cyrus,  and  Horace  hears  in  the  thun- 
der the  rush  of  Diespiter,  and  identifies  Providence  witb^ 
the  Fortune  that  snatches  off  the  diadem  in  her  whirring 
swoop.*     But  fronts  discrowned  take  a  new  majesty  to 

*  " Valet  ima  summis 


Mutare,  et  insignia  attenuat  Deus, 
Obscura  prornens.     Hinc  apicera  rapax 
Fortuna  cum  stridore  acuto 

Sustulit, — hie  posnisse  gaudet." 

—  IIoRAT.  Carm.  lib.  i.  xxxiv. 
The  concluding  allusion  is  evidently  to  the  Parthian  revolutions, 
uai  tha  cliaugeful  fate  of  Phraates  IV. ;  and  I  do  not  feel  sure  that 


S8  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

generous  natures; — in  all  sleek  prosperity  there  is  some- 
thing  commonplace  —  in  all  grand  adversity,  something 
royal. 

The  boat  shot  to  the  shore  ;  the  young  people  landed, 
and  entered  the  arch  of  the  desolate  palace.  They  gazed 
on  the  great  hall  and  the  presence-chamber  and  the  long 
suite  of  rooms,  with  faded  portraits — Yance  as  an  artist, 
Lionel  as  an  enthusiastic,  well-read  boy,  Sophy  as  a  won- 
dering, bewildered,  ignorant  child.  And  then  they  emerged 
into  the  noble  garden,  with  its  regal  trees.  Groups  were 
there  of  well-dressed  persons.  Yance  heard  himself  called 
byname.  He  had  forgotten  the  London  world — forgotten, 
amidst  his  midsummer  ramblings  that  the  London  season 
was  still  ablaze  —  and  there,  stragglers  from  the  great 
Focus,  fine  people,  with  languid  tones  and  artificial  jaded 
smiles,  caught  him  in  his  wanderer's  dress,  and  walking 
side  by  side  with  the  infant  wonder  of  Mr.  Rugge's  show, 
exquisitely  neat  indeed,  but  still  in  a  colored  print,  of  a 
pattern  familiar  to  his  observant  eye  in  the  windows  of 
many  a  shop  lavish  of  tickets,  and  inviting  you  to  come 
in  by  the  assurance  that  it  is  "selling  off."  The  artist 
stopped,  colored,  bowed,  answered  the  listless  question 
put  to  him  with  shy  haste  ;  he  then  attempted  to  escape 
—  they  would  not  let  him. 

"  You  must  come  back  and  dine  with  us  at  the  Star  and 
Garter,"  said  T-ady  Selina  Yipont.     "A  pleasant  party — 

the  preceding  lines  upon  the  phenomenon  of  the  thunder  in  a  serene 
Bky  have  not  a  latent  and  half-allegorical  meaning,  dimly  applica- 
ble, thioughout,  to  the  historical  reference  at  the  close." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  89 

you  know  most  of  them  —  the  Dudley  Slowes,  dear  old 
Lady  Frost,  those  pretty  ladies  Prymme,  Janet  and  Wil- 
helmina." 

"  We  can't  let  you  off,"  said  sleepily  Mr.  Crampe,  a 
fashionable  wit,  who  rarely  made  more  than  one  bon-mot 
in  the  twenty-four  hours,  and  spent  the  rest  of  his  time  in 
a  torpid  state. 

Vance.  "  Really  you  are  too  kind,  but  I  am  not  even 
dressed  for  —  " 

Lady  Selina.  "  So  charmingly  dressed  —  so  pictu- 
resque !  Besides,  what  matters  ?  Every  one  knows  who 
you  are.     Where  on  earth  have  you  been  ? " 

Yance.   "Rambling  about,  taking  sketches." 

Lady  Selina  (directing  her  eye-glass  toward  Lionel 
and  Sophy,  who  stood  aloof).  "But  your  companions, 
your  brother  ? — and  that  pretty  little  girl — your  sister,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

Yance  (shuddering).  "No,  not  relations.  I  took 
charge  of  the  boy  —  clever  young  fellow;  and  the  little 
girl  is — " 

Lady  Selina.   "Yes.     The  little  girl  is — " 

Yance.  "A  little  girl  as  you  see  ;  and  very  pretty,  as 
you  say  —  subject  for  a  picture." 

Lady  Selina  (indifferently).  "  Oh,  let  the  children  go 
and  amuse  themselves  somewhere.  Now  we  have  found 
you  —  positively  you  are  our  prisoner." 

Lady  Selina  Yipont  was  one  of  the  queens  of  London, 
she  had  with  her  that  habit  of  command  natural  to  such 
royalties.  Frank  Yance  was  no  tuft-hunter,  but  once 
8* 


90  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH     IT? 

under  social  influences,  thej^  had  their  effect  on  him,  as 
on  most  men  who  are  blessed  with  noses  in  the  air.  Those 
great  ladies,  it  is  true,  never  bought  his  pictures,  but  they 
gave  him  the  position  which  induced  others  to  buy  them. 
Yance  loved  his  art ;  his  art  needed  its  career.  Its  career 
was  certainly  brightened  and  quickened  by  the  help  of 
rank  and  fashion. 

In  short.  Lady  Selina  triumphed,  and  the  painter  step- 
ped Dack  to  Lionel.  "  I  must  go  to  Richmond  with 
these  people.  I  know  you'll  excuse  me.  I  shall  be  back 
to-night  somehow.  By-the-by,  you  are  going  to  the  post- 
office  here  for  the  letter  you  expect  from  your  mother ; 
ask  for  mine  too.  You  will  take  care  of  little  Sophy, 
and  (in  a  whisper)  hurry  her  out  of  the  garden,  or  that 
Grand  Mogul  feminine.  Lady  Selina,  whose  condescension 
would  crush  the  Andes,  will  be  stopping  her  as  trj  pro- 
tegee, falling  in  raptures  with  that  horrid  colored  print, 
saying,  '  Dear  what  pretty  sprigs  I  where  can  such  things 
be  got  ?  '  and  learning,  perhaps,  how  Frank  Yance  saved 
the  Bandit's  Child  from  the  Remorseless  Baron.  'Tis 
your  turn  now.  Save  your  friend.  The  Baron  was  a 
lamb  compared  to  a  fine  lady."  He  pressed  Lionel's  un- 
responding  hand,  and  was  off  to  join  the  polite  merry- 
making of  the  Frosts,   Slowes,  and  Prymmes. 

Lionel's  pride  ran  up  to  the  fever  heat  of  its  thermome- 
ter ;  more  roused,  though,  on  behalf  of  the  unconscious 
Sophy  than  himself. 

"  Let  us  come  into  the  town,  lady-bird,  and  choose  a 
doll.     You  may  have  one  now  without  fear  of  distracting 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  91 

^on  from — what  I  hate  to  think  you  ever  stooped  to  per- 
form." 

As  Lionel,  his  crest  erect,  and  nostril  dilated,  and  hold- 
ing Sophy  firmly  by  the  hand,  took  his  way  out  from  the 
gardens,  he  was  obliged  to  pass  the  patrician  party  of 
whom  Yance  now  made  one. 

His  countenance  and  air,  as  he  swept  by,  struck  them 
all,  especially  Lady  Selina.  "A  very  distinguished-look- 
ing boy,"  said  she.  ''What  a  fine  face  !  Who  did  you 
say  he  was,  Mr.  Yance  ?  " 

Yance.  "  His  name  is  Haughton — Lionel  Haughton  ?" 

Lady  Selina.  "  Haughton  !  Haughton  !  Any  relation 
to  poor,  dear  Captain  Haughton — Charlie  Haughton,  as 
he  was  generally  called?" 

Yance,  knowing  little  more  of  his  young  friend's  parent- 
age than  that  his  mother  let  lodgings,  at  which,  once 
domiciliated  himself,  he  had  made  the  boy's  acquaintance, 
and  that  she  enjoyed  the  pension  of  a  captain's  widow, 
replied  carelessly  : 

"  His  father  was  a  captain,  but  I  don't  know  whether 
he  was  a  Charlie." 

Mr.  Crampe  (the  Wit).  "  Charlies  are  extinct !  I  have 
the  last  in  a  fossil  —  box  and  all ! " 

General  laugh.     Wit  shut  up  again. 

Lady  Selina.  "He  has  a  great  look  of  Charlie 
Haughton.  Do  you  know  if  he  is  connected  with  that 
extraordinary  man,  Mr.  Darrell  ?  " 

Vance.  "  Upon  my  word,  I  do  not.  What  Mr.  Dar- 
rell do  you  mean  ? " 


92  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Lady  Selina,  with  one  of  those  sublime  looks  of  celes- 
tial pity  with  which  personages  in  the  great  world  for- 
give ignorance  of  names  and  genealogies  in  those  not 
born  within  its  orbit,  replied,  "  Oh,  to  be  sure  :  it  is  not 
exactly  in  the  way  of  your  delightful  art  to  know  Mr. 
Darrell,  one  of  the  first  men  in  Parliament,  a  connection 
of  mine." 

Lady  Frost  (nippingly).  "  You  mean  Guy  Darrell, 
the  lawyer." 

Lady  Selina.  "Lawyer  —  true,  now  I  think  of  it,  he 
was  a  lawyer.  But  his  chief  fame  was  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  All  parties  agreed  that  he  might  have  com- 
manded any  station ;  but  he  was  too  rich,  perhaps,  to 
care  sufficiently  about  office.  At  all  events,  Parliament 
was  dissolved  when  he  was  at  the  height  of  his  reputa- 
tion, and  he  refused  to  be  re-elected." 

One  Sir  Jasper  Stollhead  (a  member  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  young,  wealthy,  a  constant  attendant,  of 
great  promise,  with  speeches  that  were  filled  with  facts, 
and  emptied  the  benches).  "  I  have  heard  of  him.  Be- 
fore my  time  ;  lawyers  not  much  weight  in  the  House 
now." 

Lady  Selina.  "  I  am  told  that  Mr.  Darrell  did  not 
speak  like  a  lawyer.  But  his  career  is  over — lives  in  the 
country,  and  sees  nobody — a  thousand  pities — a  connec- 
tion of  mine,  too — great  loss  to  the  country.  Ask  your 
young  friend,  Mr.  Yance,  if  Mr.  Darrell  is  not  his  rela- 
tion, i  hope  so,  for  his  sake.  Now  that  our  party  is  io 
power,  Mr.  Darrell  could  command  any  thing  for  others. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  93 

Ihougli  be  has  ceased  to  act  with  us.  Our  party  is  not 
forgetful  of  talents." 

Lady  Frost  (with  icy  crispness).  "  I  should  think  not ; 
it  has  so  little  of  that  kind  to  remember." 

Sir  Jasper.  "  Talent  is  not  wanted  in  the  House  of 
Commons  now  —  don't  go  down,  in  fact.  Business  as- 
sembly." 

Lady  Selina  (suppressing  a  yawn).  "  Beautiful  day  I 
We  had  better  think  of  going  back  to  Richmond." 

General  assent,  and  slow  retreat. 


CHAPTER  XY. 

The  Historian  records  the  attachment  to  public  business  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  British  Legislator. — Touching  instance  of  the  re- 
gret which  ever  in  patriotic  bosoms  attends  the  neglect  of  a  public 
duty. 

From  the  dusty  height  of  a  rumble-tumble  affixed  to 
Lady  Selina  Yipont's  barouche,  and  by  the  animated  side 
of  Sir  Jasper  Stollhead,  Yance  caught  sight  of  Lionel 
and  Sophy  at  a  corner  of  the  spacious  green  near  the 
Palace.  He  sighed ;  he  envied  them.  He  thought  of 
the  boat,  the  water,  the  honey-suckle  arbor  at  the  little 
inn  —  pleasures  he  had  denied  himself — pleasures  all  in 
his  own  way.  They  seemed  still  more  alluring  by  con- 
trast with  the  prospect  before  him  ;  formal  dinner  at  the 
Star  and  Garter,  with  titled  Prymmes,  Slowes,  and  Frosts 


94  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

a  couple  of  guineas  a-head,  including  light  wines,  wbl.lji 
he  did  not  drink,  and  the  expense  of  a  chaise  back  by 
himself.  But  such  are  life  and  its  social  duties  —  such, 
above  all,  ambition  and  a  career.  Who,  that  would  leave 
a  name  on  his  tombstone,  can  say  to  his  own  heart, 
"  Perish,  Stars  and  Garters ;  my  existence  shall  pass 
from  day  to  day  in  honey-suckle  arbors?" 

Sir  Jasper  Stollhead  interrupted  Yance's  reverie  by  an 
impassioned  sneeze  —  "  Dreadful  smell  of  hay  I "  said  the 
legislator,  with  watery  eyes.  "Are  you  subject  to  the 
hay  fever  ?  I  am  !  A  —  tisha  —  tisha  —  tisha  (sneezing) 
—  country  frightfully  unwholesome  at  this  time  of  year. 
And  to  think  that  I  ought  now  to  be  in  the  House  —  in 
my  committee-room — no  smell  of  hay  there  —  most  im- 
portant committee  " 

Yance  (rousing  himself).     "Ah  I  —  on  what .'' " 

Sir  Jasper  (regretfully).     "  Sewers  I 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

Signs  of  an  impending  revolution,  which,  like  all  revolutionSt 
seems  to  come  of  a  sudden,  though  its  causes  have  long  been  at 
work ;  and  to  go  off  in  a  tantrum,  though  its  effects  must  run  on 
to  the  end  of  a  history. 

Lionel  could  not  find  in  the  toy  shops  of  the  village  a 
(loll  good  enough  to  satisfy  his  liberal  inclinations,  but  he 
bought  one  which  amply  contented  the  humbler  aspira- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  95 

tions  of  Sophy.  He  tlicn  strolled  to  the  post-office. 
There  were  several  letters  for  Vance  —  one  for  hhnself  in 
his  mother's  handwriting.  He  delayed  opening  it  for  the 
moment.  The  day  was  far  advanced  —  Sophy  must  be 
hungry.  In  vain  she  declared  she  was  not.  They  passed 
by  a  fruiterer's  stall.  The  strawberries  and  cherries  were 
temptingly  fresh  —  the  sun  still  very  powerful.  At  the 
back  of  the  fruiterer's  was  a  small  garden,  or  rather 
orchard,  smiling  cool  through  the  open  door  —  little 
tables  laid  out  there.  The  good  woman  who  kept  the 
shop  was  accustomed  to  the  wants  and  tastes  of  humble 
metropolitan  visitors.  But  the  garden  was  luckily  now 
empty  —  it  was  before  the  usual  hour  for  tea-parties  ;  so 
the  young  fo^vs  had  the  pleasantest  table  under  an  apple- 
tree,  and  the  choice  of  the  freshest  fruit.  Milk  and  cakes 
were  added  to  the  fare.  It  was  a  banquet,  in  Sophy's 
eyes,  worthy  that  happy  day.  And  when  Lionel  had 
finished  his  share  of  the  feast,  eating  fast,  as  spirited  im- 
patient boys,  formed  to  push  on  in  life  and  spoil  their  di- 
gestion, are  aj)t  to  do  ;  and  while  Sophy  was  still  lingering- 
over  the  last  of  the  strawberries,  he  threw  himself  back 
on  his  chair,  and  drew  forth  his  letter.  Lionel  was  ex- 
tremely fond  of  his  mother,  but  her  letters  were  not  often 
those  which  a  boy  is  over  eager  to  read.  It  is  not  all 
mo'^Jiers  who  understand  what  boys  are — their  quick  sus- 
ceptibilities, their  precocious  manliness,  all  their  mystical 
ways  and  oddities.  A  letter  from  Mrs.  Haughton  gene- 
rally somewhat  fretted  and  irritated  Lionel's  high-strung 
nerves,  and  he  had  instinctively  put  off  the  task  of  reading 


96  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

the  one  he  held,  till  satisfied  hunger  and  cool-breathing 
shadows,  and  rest  from  the  dusty  road,  had  lent  theii* 
soothing  aid  to  his  undeveloped  philosophy. 

He  broke  the  seal  slowly ;  another  letter  was  inclosed 
within.  At  the  first  few  words  his  countenance  changed  ; 
he  uttered  a  slight  exclamation,  read  on  eagerly ;  then, 
before  concluding  his  mother's  epistle,  hastily  tore  open 
that  which  it  had  contained,  ran  his  eye  over  its  contents, 
and,  dropping  both  letters  on  the  turf  below,  rested  his 
face  on  his  hand,  in  agitated  thought.  Thus  ran  his 
mother's  letter: 

"  My  Dear  Boy,  —  How  could  you  ?  Do  it  slyly  I  I 
Unknown  to  your  own  mother  I  !  1  I  could  not  believe 
it  of  you  !  I  !  I  Take  advantage  of  my  confidence  in 
showing  you  the  letters  of  your  father's  cousin,  to  write 
to  himself — clandestinely!  —  you,  who  I  thought  had 
such  an  open  character,  and  who  ought  to  appreciate 
mine.  Every  one  who  knows  me  says  I  am  a  woman  in 
ten  thousand  —  not  for  beauty  and  talent  (though  I  have 
bad  my  admirers  for  them  too),  but  for  goodness  !  As  a 
wife  and  mother,  I  may  say  I  have  been  exemplary.  I 
had  sore  trials  with  the  dear  captain  —  and  immense 
temptations.  But  he  said  on  his  death-bed,  *  Jessica, 
you  are  an  angel.'  And  I  have  had  offers  since— immense 
ofTers  —  but  I  devoted  myself  to  my  child,  as  you  know. 
And  what  I  have  put  up  with,  letting  the  first  floor,  no- 
body can  tell ;  and  only  a  widow's  pension — going  before 
a  magistrate  to  get  it  paid.    And  to  think  my  own  child, 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  9t 

for  whom  I  have  borne  so  much,  should  behave  so  cruelly 
to  me  !  Clandestine  I  'tis  that  which  stabs  me.  Mrs 
laman  found  me  crying,  and  said,  *  What  is  the  matter  ? 
—  you,  who  are  such  an  angel,  crying  like  a  baby  I '  And 
I  could  not  help  saying,  '  'Tis  the  serpent's  tooth,  Mrs.  L' 
What  you  wrote  to  your  benefactor  (and  I  had  hoped 
patron)  I  don't  care  to  guess  ;  something  very  rude  and 
imprudent  it  must  be,  judging  by  the  few  lines  he  ad- 
dressed to  me.  I  don't  mind  copying  them  for  you  to 
read.  All  my  acts  are  above  board  — as  often  and  often 
and  often  Captain  H.  used  to  say,  *  Your  heart  is  in  a 
glass-case,  Jessica  ; '  and  so  it  is  !  hut  my  son  keeps  his 
under  lock  and  key. 

"  '  Madam'  (this  is  what  he  writes  to  me),  '  your  son 
has  thought  fit  to  infringe  the  condition  upon  which  I 
agreed  to  assist  you  on  his  behalf.  I  inclose  a  reply  to 
himself,  which  I  beg  you  will  give  to  his  own  hands  with- 
out breaking  the  seal.  Since  it  did  not  seem  to  you  in- 
discreet to  communicate  to  a  boy  of  his  years  letters 
written  solely  to  yourself,  you  can  not  blame  me  if  I  take 
your  implied  estimate  of  his  capacity  to  judge  for  himself 
of  the  nature  of  a  correspondence,  and  of  the  views  and 
temper  of,  Madam,  your  very  obedient  servant.'  And 
that's  all,  to  me.  I  send  his  letter  to  you  —  seal  un- 
broken. I  conclude  he  has  done  with  you  forever,  and 
your  CAREER  is  lost!  But  if  it  be  so,  oh,  my  poor,  poor 
child  I  at  that  thought  I  have  not  the  heart  to  scold  you 
farther.  If  it  be  so,  come  home  to  me,  and  I'll  work  and 
slave  for  you,  and  you  shall  keep  up  your  head  and  be  a 

I.  ~  9  a 


98  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

gentleman  still,  as  you  are,  every  inch  of  you.  Don't 
mind  what  I've  said  at  the  beginning,  dear  —  don't !  you 
know  I'm  hasty,  and  I  was  hurt.  But  you  could  not 
mean  to  be  sly  and  underhand  —  'twas  only  your  high 
spirit  —  and  it  was  my  fault;  I  should  not  have  shown 
you  the  letters.  I  hope  you  are  well,  and  have  quite  lost 
that  nasty  cough,  and  that  Mr.  Vance  treats  you  with 
proper  respect.  I  think  him  rather  too  pushing  and 
familiar,  though  a  pleasant  young  man  on  the  whole. 
But,  after  all,  he  is  only  a  painter.  Bless  you,  my  child, 
and  don't  have  secrets  again  from  your  poor  mother. 

.     Jessica  Haugiiton. 

The  inclosed  letter  was  as  follows  : 

"  Lionel  Haughton,  —  Some  men  might  be  displeased 
at  receiving  such  a  letter  as  you  have  addressed  to  me  ;  I 
am  not.  At  your  years,  and  under  the  same  circumstances, 
I  might  have  written  a  letter  much  in  the  same  spirit.  Re- 
lieve your  mind  —  as  yet  you  owe  me  no  obligations  ;  you 
have  only  received  back  a  debt  due  to  you.  My  father 
was  poor ;  your  grandfather,  Robert  Haughton,  assisted 
him  in  the  cost  of  my  education.  I  have  assisted  your 
father's  son  ;  we  are  quits.  Before,  however,  we  decide 
on  having  done  with  each  other  for  the  future,  I  suggest 
to  you  to  pay  me  a  short  visit.  Probably  I  shall  not  like 
you,  nor  you  me.  But  we  are  both  gentlemen,  and  need 
not  show  dislike  too  coarsely.  If  you  decide  on  coming, 
come  at  once,  or  possibly  you  may  not  find  me  here.  If 
you  refuse,  I  shall  have  a  poor  opinion  of  your  sense  and 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  99 

temper,  and  in  a  week  I  shall  have  forgotten  your  existence 
I  ought  to  add  that  your  father  and  I  were  once  warm 
friends,  and  that  by  descent  I  am  the  head  not  only  of  my 
own  race,  which  ends  with  me,  but  of  the  Haughton  family, 
of  which,  though  your  line  assumed  the  name,  it  was  but 
a  younger  branch.  Nowadays  young  men  are  probably 
not  brought  up  to  care  for  these  things  —  I  was.  Yours, 
"Guy  Haughton  Darrell. 

"Manor  House,  Fawley." 

Sophy  picked  up  the  fallen  letters,  placed  them  on 
Lionel's  lap,  and  looked  into  his  face  wistfully.  He  smiled, 
resumed  his  mother's  epistle,  and  read  the  concluding 
passages  which  he  had  before  omitted.  Their  sudden  turn 
from  reproof  to  tenderness  melted  him.  He  began  to  feel 
that  his  mother  had  a  right  to  blame  him  for  an  act  of 
concealment.  Still  she  never  would  have  consented  to  his 
writing  such  a  letter ;  and  had  that  letter  been  attended 
with  so  ill  a  result  ?  Again  he  read  Mr.  Barrel's  blunt 
but  not  offensive  lines.  His  pride  was  soothed  —  why 
should  he  not  now  love  his  father's  friend  ?  He  rose 
briskly,  paid  for  the  fruit,  and  went  his  way  back  to  the 
boat  with  Sophy.  As  his  oars  cut  the  wave  he  talked 
gayly,  but  he  ceased  to  interrogate  Sophy  on  her  past. 
Energetic,  sanguine,  ambitious,  liis  own  future  entered 
now  into  his  thoughts.  Still,  when  the  sun  sunk  as  the 
inn  came  partially  into  view  from  the  winding  of  the  banks 
and  the  fringe  of  the  willows,  his  mind  again  settled  on 
the  patient,  quiet  little  girl,  who  had  not  ventured  to  ask 


100  WHAT    WIT.L    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

him  one  question  in  return  for  all  he  had  put  so  uncere- 
moniously to  her.  Indeed,  she  was  silently  musing  over 
words  he  had  inconsiderately  let  fall  —  "What  I  hate  to 
think  you  had  ever  stooped  to  perform."  Little  could 
Lionel  guess  the  unquiet  thoughts  which  those  words 
might  hereafter  call  forth  from  the  brooding,  deepening 
meditations  of  lonely  childhood  I  At  length,  said  the  boy, 
abruptly,  as  he  had  said  once  before  — 

"  I  wish,  Sophy,  you  were  my  sister."  He  added,  in  a 
saddened  tone,  "I  never  had  a  sister — I  have  so  longed 
Tor  one !  However,  surely  we  shall  meet  again.  You  go 
to-morrow  —  so  must  I."  • 

Sophy's  tears  flowed  softly,  noiselessly. 

"  Cheer  up,  lady-bird  ;  I  wish  you  liked  me  half  as  much 
as  I  like  you  I  " 

"  I  do  like  you  —  oh,  so  much  !  "  cried  Sophy,  passion- 
ately. 

"Well,  then,  you  can  write,  you  say?" 

"A  little." 

"  You  shall  write  to  me  now  and  then,  and  I  to  you. 
I'll  talk  to  your  grandfather  about  it.  Ah,  there  he  is, 
surely  I " 

The  boat  now  ran  into  the  shelving  creek,  and  by  the 
honey-suckle  arbor  stood  Gentleman  Waife,  leaning  on 
his  stick. 

"  You  are  late,"  said  the  actor,  as  they  landed,  and 
Sophy  sprang  into  his  arms.  "  I  began  to  be  uneasy,  and 
came  here  to  inquire  after  you.  You  have  not  caught 
cold,  child?" 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  10 1 

Sophy.     "  Oh,  no." 

Lionel.  "  She  is  the  best  of  children.  Pray,  come 
into  the  inn,  Mr.  Waife ;  no  toddy,  but  some  refreshment." 

Waife.  "  I  thank  you  —  no,  Sir ;  I  wish  to  get  home 
at  once.     I  walk  slowly;  it  will  be  dark  soon." 

Lionel  tried  in  vain  to  detain  him.  There  was  a  certain 
change  in  Mr.  Waife's  manner  to  him  ;  it  was  much  more 
distant  —  it  was  even  pettish,  if  not  surly.  Lionel  could 
not  account  for  it  —  thought  it  mere  whim  at  first,  but  as 
he  walked  part  of  the  way  back  with  them  toward  the 
village,  this  asperity  continued,  nay,  increased.  Lionel 
was  hurt ;  he  arrested  his  steps. 

"I  see  you  wish  to  have  your  grandchild  to  yourself 
now.  May  I  call  early  to-morrow  ?  Sophy  will  tell  you 
that  I  hope  we  may  not  altogether  lose  sight  of  each  other. 
I  will  give  you  my  address  when  I  call." 

"What  time  to-morrow,  Sir?" 

"About  nine." 

Waife  bowed  his  head  and  walked  on,  but  Sophy  looked 
back  toward  her  boy  friend,  sorrowfully,  gratefully  — 
twiliglit  in  the  skies  that  had  been  so  sunny  —  twilight  in 
her  face  that  had  been  so  glad  I  She  looked  once,  twice, 
thrice,  as  Lionel  halted  on  the  road  and  kissed  his  hand. 
The  third  time  Waife  said,  with  unwonted  crossness — • 

"  Enough  of  that,  Sophy  ;  looking  after  young  men  is 
not  proper  I  What  does  he  mean  about  'seeing  each 
other,  and  giving  me  his  address?'" 

"He  wished  me  to  write  to  him  sometimes,  and  he 
would  write  to  me." 


102  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Waife's  brow  contracted  ;  but  if,  in  the  excess  of  grand- 
fatherly  caution,  he  could  have  supposed  that  the  bright- 
hearted  boy  of  seventeen  meditated  ulterior  ill  to  that  fairy 
child  in  such  a  scheme  for  correspondence,  he  must  have 
been  in  his  dotage,  and  he  had  not  hitherto  evinced  any 
signs  of  that. 

Farewell,  pretty  Sophy  1  The  evening  star  shines  upon 
yon  elm-tree  that  hides  thee  from  view.  Fading  —  fading 
grows  the  summer  landscape ;  faded  already  from  the  land- 
scape thy  gentle  image  I  So  ends  a  holiday  in  life.  Hal- 
low it,  Sophy  ;  hallow  it,  Lionel.  Life's  holidays  are  not 
too  many! 


CHAPTER   XYII. 

By  this  chapter  it  appeareth  that  he  who  sets  out  on  a  career  can 
scarcely  expect  to  walk  in  perfecJtr  comfort,  if  he  exchange  his 
own  thick-soled  shoes  for  dress-boots  which  were  made  for  an- 
other man's  measure,  and  that  the  said  boots  may  not  the  less 
pinch  for  being  brilliantly  varnished.  —  It  also  showeth  for  the 
instruction  of  Men  and  States,  the  connection  between  demo- 
cratic opinion  and  wounded  self-love ;  so  that,  if  some  Liberal 
statesman  desire  to  rouse  against  an  aristocracy  the  class  just 
below  it,  he  has  only  to  persuade  a  fine  lady  to  be  exceedingly 
civil  "to  that  sort  of  people." 

Vance,  returning  late  at  night,  found  his  friend  still  up 
in  the  little  parlor,  the  windows  open,  pacing  the  floor 
with  restless  strides,  stopping  now  and  then  to  look  at 
the  moon  upon  the  river. 

"  Such  a  day  as  I  have  had  I  and  twelve  shillings  for 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  103 

the  flj,  'pikes  not  included,'.'  said  Vance,  much  out  of 
humor. 

*"I  fly  from  plate,  I  fly  from  pomp, 

fly  from  falsehood's  specious  grin  * 

I  forget  the  third  line ;  I  know  the  last  is, 

*To  find  my  welcome  at  an  inn.* 

You  are  silent :  I  annoyed  you  by  going — could  not  help 
it  —  pity  me,  and  lock  up  your  pride." 

"No,  my  dear  Vance,  I  was  hurt  for  a  moment  —  but 
that's  long  since  over  ! " 

"  Still  you  seem  to  have  something  on  your  mind,"  said 
Vance,  who  had  now  finished  reading  his  letters,  lighted 
his  cigar,  and  was  leaning  against  the  window  as  the  boy 
continued  to  walk  to  and  fro. 

"  That  is  true  —  I  have.  I  should  like  your  advice. 
Read  that  letter.  Ought  I  to  go  ?  —  would  it  look  mer- 
cenary—  grasping?     You  know  what  I  mean." 

Vance  approached  the  candles,  and.  took  the  letter. 
He  glanced  first  at  the  signature.  "  Darrell ! "  he  ex- 
claimed. "  Oh,  it  is  so,  then  ! "  He  read  with  great 
attention,  put  down  the  letter,  and  shook  Lionel  by  the 
hand.  "  I  congratulate  you  ;  all  is  settled  as  it  should  be. 
Go  ?  of  course — you  would  be  an  ill-mannered  lout  if  you 
did  not.  'Is  it  far  from  hence  —  must  you  return  to  town 
first?" 

Lionel.  "  No  I  I  find  I  can  get  across  the  country — 
two  hours  by  the  railway.  There  is  a  station  at  the  town 
which  bears  the  postmark  of  the  letter.  I  shall  make  for 
that,  if  you  advise  it,  ' 


104  «VaAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"  You  knew  I  should  advise  it,  or  you  would  not  have 
made  those  researches  into  Bradshaw." 

"  Shrewdly  said,"  answered  Lionel,  laughing;  ''but  I 
wished  for  your  sanction  of  my  crude  impressions." 

"  You  never  told  me  your  cousin's  name  was  Darrell — 
not  that  I  should  have  been  much  wiser,  if  you  had  ;  but, 
thunder  and  lightning,  Lionel,  do  you  know  that  your 
cousin  Darrell  is  a  famous  man  ? " 

Lionel.  "  Famous  !  —  nonsense.  I  suppose  he  was  a 
good  lawyer,  for  I  have  heard  my  mother  say,  with  a  sort 
of  contempt,  that  he  had  made  a  great  fortune  at  the 
bar  I " 

Yance.   "But  he  was  in  Parliament." 

Lionel.   "Was  he?     I  did  not  know." 

Yance.  "And  this  is  senatorial  fame  I  You  never 
heard  your  school-fellows  talk  of  Mr.  Darrell  ?  —  they 
would  not  have  known  his  name  if  you  had  boasted  of  it ! " 

Lionel.  "Certainly  not."' 

Yance.  "  Would  your  school-fellows  have  known  the 
names  of  Wilkie,  of  Landseer,  of  Turner,  Maclise  —  I 
speak  of  Painters  !  " 

Lionel.   "I  should  think  so,  indeed." 

Yance  (soliloquizing).  "And  yet  Her  Serene  Sublimi- 
tyship,  Lady  Selina  Yipont,  says  to  me  with  divine  com- 
passion, *  Not  in  the  way  of  your  delightful  art  to  know 
such  men  as  Mr.  Darrell ! '  Oh,  as  if  I  did  not  see  through 
it  —  oh,  as  if  I  did  not  see  through  it  too  when  she  said, 
apropos  of  my  jean  cap  and  velveteen  jacket,  *  What  mat- 
ters how  you  dress  ?     Every  one  knows  who  you  are  ! ' 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  105 

Would  she  have  said  that  to  the  Earl  of  Dander,  or  even 
to  Sir  Jasper  Stollhead  ?  No.  I  am  the  painter  Frank 
Vance  —  nothing  more  nor  less;  and  if  I  stood  on  my 
head  in  a  check  shirt  o,nd  a  sky-colored  apron,  Lady  Se- 
lina  Yipont  would  kindly  murmur,  '  Only  Frank  Vance 
the  painter  —  what  does  it  signify  ? '  Aha  !  —  and  they 
think  to  put  me  to  use  I  — puppets  and  lay  figures  I  —  it 
is  I  who  put  them  to  use  I  Harkye,  Lionel,  you  are  nearer 
akin  to  these  fine  folks  than  I  knew  of.  Promise  me  one 
thing :  you  may  become  of  their  set,  by  right  of  your 
famous  Mr.  Darrell ;  if  ever  you  hear  an  artist,  musician, 
scribbler,  no  matter  what,  ridiculed  as  a  tuft-hunter — • 
seeking  the  great  —  and  so  forth  —  before  you  join  in  the 
laugh,  ask  some  great  man's  son,  with  a  pedigree  that 
dates  from  the  Ark,  'Are  you  not  a  toad-eater  too  ?  Do 
you  want  political  influence?  —  do  you  stand  contested 
elections  ?  —  do  you  curry  and  fawn  upon  greasy  Sam  the 
butcher,  and  grimy  Tom  the  blacksmith  for  a  vote  ?  Why  ? 
useful  to  your  career — necessary  to  your  ambition  ! '  Aha  1 
is  it  meaner  to  curry  and  fawn  upon  whitehanded  women 
and  elegant  coxcombs  ?  Tut,  tut !  useful  to  a  career  — 
necessary  to  ambition  ?  "  Vance  paused,  out  of  breath. 
The  spoiled  darling  of  the  circles  —  he  —  to  talk  such 
radical  rubbish  I  Certainly  he  must  have  taken  his  two 
guineas'  worth  out  of  those  light  wines.  Nothing  so 
treacherous  !  they  inflame  the  brain  like  fire,  while  melting 
on  the  palate  like  ice.  All  inhabitants  of  light-wine  couu- 
;ries  are  quarrelsome  and  democratic. 
Lionel  (astounded).    "  No  one,  I  am  sure,  could  have 


106  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    ^ITH    IT? 

meant  to  call  jou  a  tuft-hunter  —  of  course,  every  one 
knows  that  a  great  painter — " 

Yance.  "  Dates  from  Michael  Angelo,  if  not  from 
Zeuxis  !  Common  individuals  trace  their  pedigree  from 
their  own  fathers  I  —  the  children  of  Art  from  Art's 
founder?  I " 

Oh  Vance,  Yance,  you  are  certainly  drunk  I  If  that 
comes  from  dining  with  fine  people  at  the  Star  and  Gar- 
ter, you  would  be  a  happier  man  and  as  good  a  painter 
if  you  sipped  your  toddy  in  honey-suckle  arbors. 

"But,"  said  Lionel,  bewildered,  and  striving  to  turn 
his  friend's  thoughts,  "  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  Mr. 
Darrell?" 

Yance.  "  Mr.  Darrell  might  have  been  one  of  the  first 
men  in  the  kingdom.  Lady  Selina  Yipont  says  so,  and 
she  is  related,  I  believe,  to  every  member  in  the  Cabinet. 
Mr.  Darrell  can  push  you  in  life,  and  make  your  fortune, 
without  any  great  trouble  on  your  own  part.  Bless  your 
stars,  and  rejoice  that  you  are  not  a  painter  I" 

Lionel  flung  his  arm  round  the  artist's  broad  breast. 
"  Yance,  you  are  cruel ! "  It  was  his  turn  to  console  the 
painter,  as  the  painter  had  three  nights  before  (apropos 
of  the  same  Mr.  Darrell)  consoled  him.  Yance  gradually 
sobered  down,  and  the  young  men  walked  forth  in  the 
moonlight.  And  the  eternal  stars  had  the  same  kind  looks 
for  Yance  as  they  had  vouchsafed  to  Lionel. 

"When  do  you  start?"  asked  the  painter,  as  they 
mounted  the  stairs  to  bed. 

*' To-morrow  evening.     I  miss  the  early  train,  for  I 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  107 

must  call  first  and  take  leave  of  Sophy.  I  hope  I  may 
see  her  again  in  after-life." 

"And  I  hope,  for  your  sake,  that  if  so,  &Iie  may  not  be 
in  the  same  colored  print  with  Lady  Selina  Yipont's  eye- 
glass upon  her  I " 

"  What !  "  said  Lionel,  laughing  ;  "  is  Lady  Selina 
Yipont  so  formidably  rude  ?  " 

"  Rude  !  nobody  is  rude  in  that  delightful  set.  Lady 
Selina  Yipont  is  excruciatingly  —  civil." 


CHAPTER  XYIII 

Being  devoted  exclusively  to  a  reflection,  not  inapposite  to  the 
events  in  this  history,  nor  to  those  in  any  other  which  chronicles 
the  life  of  man. 

There  is  one  warning  lesson  in  life  which  few  of  us 
have  not  received,  and  no  book  that  I  can  call  to  memory 
has  noted  down  with  an  adequate  emphasis.  It  is  this, 
"Beware  of  parting!"  The  true  sadness  is  not  in  the 
pain  of  the  parting,  it  is  in  the  When  and  the  How  you 
are  tc  meet  again  with  the  face  about  to  vanish  from  your 
view  1  From  the  passionate  farewell  to  the  woman  who 
lias  your  heart  in  her  keeping,  to  the  cordial  good-by  ex- 
changed with  pleasant  companions  at  a  watering-place,  a 
country-house,  or  the  close  of  a  festive  day's  blithe  and 
;?areless  excursion — a  cord,  stronger  or  weaker,  is  snapped 
asunder  in  every  parting,  and  Time's  busy  fingers  are  not 


108  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

practised  in  re-splicing  broken  ties.  Meet  again  yoa 
may :  will  it  be  in  the  same  way  ?  —  with  the  same 
sympathies  ? — with  the  same  sentiments  ?  Will  the  souls, 
hurrying  on  in  diverse  paths,  unite  once  more,  as  if  the 
interval  had  been  a  dream  ?  Rarely,  rarely  I  Have  you 
not,  after  even  a  year,  even  a  month^s  absence,  returned 
to  the  same  place,  found  the  same  groups  reassembled, 
and  yet  sighed  to  yourself,  "  But  where  is  the  charm  that 
once  breathed  from  the  spot,  and  once  smiled  from  the 
faces  ?  "  A  poet  has  said — "  Eternity  itself  can  not  restore 
the  loss  struck  from  the  minute."  Are  you  happy  in  the 
spot  on  which  you  tarry  with  the  persons  whose  voices 
are  now  melodious  to  your  ear  ?  —  beware  of  parting ; 
or,  if  part  yon  must,  say  not  in  insolent  defiance  to  Time 
and  Destiny  —  "What  matters?  —  we  shall  soon  meet 
again. " 

Alas,  and  alas  I  when  we  think  of  the  lips  w^hich  mur- 
mured, **  Soon  meet  again,"  and  remember  how,  in  heart, 
soul,  and  thought,  we  stood  forever  divided  the  one  from 
the  other,  when,  once  more  face  to  face,  we  each  inly  ex- 
claimed —  "  Met  again  I " 

The  air  that  we  breathe  makes  the  medium  through 
which  sound  is  conveyed ;  be  the  instrument  unchanged, 
be  the  force  which  is  applied  to  it  the  same,  still,  the  ai^ 
that  thou  seest  not,  the  air  to  thy  ear  gives  the  music. 

Ring  a  bell  underneath  an  exhausted  receiver,  thou  will 
scarce  hear  the  sound  ;  give  a  bell  due  vibration  by  free 
air  in  warm  daylight,  or  sink  it  down  to  the  heart  of  the 
ocean,  where  the  air,  all  compressed,  fills  the  vef^sel  around 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  109 

it,*  and  the  chime,  heard  afar,  starts  thy  soul,  checks  thy 
footstep  —  unto  deep  calls  the  deep  —  a  voice  from  the 
ocean  is  borne  to  thy  soul. 

Where,  then,  the  change,  when  thou  sayest,  "  Lo,  the 
same  metal  —  why  so  faint-heard  the  ringing?"  Ask 
the  air  that  thou  seest  not,  or  above  thee  in  the  sky,  or 
below  thee  in  ocean.  Art  thou  sure  that  the  bell,  so 
faint-heard,  is  not  struck  underneath  an  exhausted 
receiver  ? 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

The  wandering  inclinations  of  Nomad  Tribes  not  to  be  accounted 
for  on  the  principles  of  action  peculiar  to  civilized  men,  who  are 
accustomed  to  live  in  good  houses  and  able  to  pay  the  income- 
tax. —  When  the  money  that  once  belonged  to  a  man  civilized 
vanishes  into  the  pockets  of  a  nomad,  neither  lawful  art  nor  oc- 
cult science  can,  with  certainty,  discover  what  he  will  do  with 
it.  —  Mr.  Vance  narrowly  escapes  well-merited  punishment  from 
the  nails  of  the  British  Fair.  —  Lionel  Haughton,  in  the  temerity 
of  youth,  braves  the  dangers  of  a  British  railway. 

The  morning  was  dull  and  overcast,  rain  gathering  in 
{he  air,  when  Yance  and  Lionel  walked  to  Waife's 
lodging.  As  Lionel  placed  his  hand  on  the  knocker  of 
tlie  private  door,  the  Cobbler,  at  his  place  by  the  window 
in  the  stall  beside,  glanced  toward  him,  and  shook  his 
head. 

*  The  bell  in  a  sunk  diving-bell,  where  the  air  is  compressed, 
feounJs  with  increased  power.  Sound  travels  four  times  quicker  in 
water  than  in  the  upper  air. 

L  — 10 


110  WHA'J     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"  No  use  knockiug,  gentlemen.  Will  you  kindly  step 
in  ? — this  way." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  your  lodgers  are  out  ?  "  asked 
Yance. 

"  Gone  ! "  said  the  Cobbler,  thrusting  his  awl  with  great 
vehemence  through  the  leather  destined  to  the  repair  of 
a  plowman's  boot. 

"  Gone  —  for  good  I "  cried  Lionel ;  "  you  cannot  mean 
it.     I  call  by  appointment." 

"  Sorry,  Sir,  for  your  trouble.  Stop  a  bit ;  I  have  a 
letter  here  for  you."  The  Cobbler  dived  into  a  drawer, 
and,  from  a  medley  of  nails  and  thongs,  drew  forth  a 
letter  addressed  to  L.  Haughton,  E^q. 

"  Is  this  from  Waife  ?  How  on  earth  did  he  know  my 
surname  ?  you  never  mentioned  it,  Yance  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  remember.  But  you  said  you  found  him 
at  the  inn,  and  they  knew  it  there.  It  is  on  the  brass 
plate  of  your  knapsack.  No  matter — what  does  he  say  ?  " 
and  Yance  looked  over  his  friend's  shoulder  and  read  : — 

"  Sir,  —  I  most  respectfully  thank  you  for  your  con- 
descending kindness  to  me  and  my  grandchild ;  and  your 
friend,  for  his  timely  and  generous  aid.  You  will  pardon 
me,  that  the  necessity  which  knows  no  law  obliges  me  to 
leave  this  place  some  hours  before  the  time  of  your  pro- 
posed visit.  My  grandchild  says  you  intended  to  ask  her 
sometimes  to  write  to  you.  Excuse  me,  Sir :  on  reflec- 
tion, you  will  perceive  how  different  your  ways  of  lile  are 
from   those  which  she  must  tread  with  me.     You  see 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  Ill 

before  you  a  raun  who  —  but  I  forget  —  you  see  him  no 
more,  and  p-obably  never  will.  Your  most  humble  and 
most  obliged  obedient  servant,  W.  W." 

Yance.  "  Who  never  more  may  trouble  you,  trouble 
you  !     Where  have  they  gone  ?  " 

Cobbler.  "  Don't  know  ;  would  you  like  to  take  a  peep 
in  the  crystal  ?  perhaps  you've  the  gift,  unbeknown." 

Yance.   "Not  I  —  Bah!  Come  away,  Lionel." 

"  Did  not  Sophy  even  leave  any  message  for  me  ?  '* 
asked  the  boy,  sorrowfully. 

"To  be  sure  she  did;  I  forgot  —  no,  not  exactly  a 
message,  but  this  —  I  was  to  be  sure  to  give  it  to  you." 
And,  out  of  his  miscellaneous  receptacle  the  Cobbler  ex- 
tracted a  little  book.  Yance  looked  and  laughed — "  The 
Butterfiies'  Ball  and  the  Grasshojopers''  Feasts 

Lionel  did  not  share  the  laugh.  He  plucked  the  book 
to  himself,  and  read  on  the  fly-leaf,  in  a  child's  irregular 
scrawl,  blistered  too  with  the  unmistakable  trace  of  fallen 
tears,  these  words: 

"  Do  not  Scorn  it.  I  have  nothing  else  I  can  think  of 
which  is  All  Mine.  Miss  Jane  Burton  gave  it  me  for 
being  Goode.  Grandfather  says  you  are  too  high  for  us, 
and  that  I  shall  not  see  you  More  ;  but  I  shall  never 
forget  how  kind  you  were  —  never  —  never.  —  Sophy." 

Said  the  Cobbler,  his  awl  upright  in  the  hand  which 
rested  on  his  knee,  "  What  a  plague  did  the  'Stronomers 
discover  Herscbell  for  ?  You  see.  Sir,"  addressing  Yance, 
"things  odd  and  strange  all  come  along  o'  Herschell. " 


112  TTHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

''  What  !  —  Sir  John  ?  " 

"  No,  the  star  he  poked  out.  He's  a  awful  star  for 
females  !  —  hates  'em  like  poison  I  I  suspect  he's  been 
worriting  hisself  into  her  nativity,  for  I  got  out  from  her 
the  year,  month,  and  day  she  was  born — hour  unbeknown 
■ — but,  calkelating  by  noon,  Herschell  was  dead  agin  her 
in  the  Third  and  Ninth  House — voyages,  travels,  letters, 
news,  church  matters,  and  sichlike.  But  it  will  all  come 
right  after  he's  transited.  Her  Jupiter  must  be  good. 
But  I  only  hope,"  added  the  Cobbler,  solemnly,  "that 
they  won't  go  a  discovering  any  more  stars.  The  world 
did  a  deal  better  without  the  new  one,  and  they  do  talk 
of  a  Neptune  —  as  bad  as  Saturn  !" 

"And  this  is  the  last  of  her!"  said  Lionel,  sadly  put- 
ting the  book  into  his  breast-pocket.  "  Heaven  shield 
her  wherever  she  goes  1  " 

Yance.  "  Don't  you  think  Waife  and  the  poor  little 
girl  will  come  back  again?" 

Cobbler.  "  P'raps  ;  I  know  he  was  looking  hard  into 
the  county  map  at  the  stationer's  over  the  way  ;  that 
seems  as  if  he  did  not  mean  to  go  very  far.  P'raps  hu 
may  come  back." 

Yance.   "  Did  he  take  all  his  goods  with  him  ?  " 

Cobbler.  "Barrin'  an  old  box  —  nothing  in  it,  I  ex- 
pect, but  theater  rubbish — play-books,  paints,  an  old  wig, 
and  sichlike.  He  has  good  clothes — always  had  ;  and  so 
has  she,  but  they  don't  make  more  than  a  bundle." 

Yance.  "  But  surely  you  must  know  what  the  old  fel- 
low's project  is.  He  has  got  from  me  a  great  sum — what 
will  he  do  with  it  ?  " 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  113 

Cobbler.  "Just  what  has  been  a  bothering  me. 
What  will  he  do  with  it  ?  I  cast  a  figure  to  know — could 
not  make  it  out.  Strange  signs  in  Twelfth  House.  Ene- 
mies and  big  animals  Well,  well,  he's  a  marbellous  man, 
and  if  he  warn't  a  misbeliever  in  the  crystal,  I  should  say 
he  was  under  Herschell ;  for  you  see,  Sir"  (laying  hold 
of  Yance's  button,  as  he  saw  that  gentleman  turning  to 
escape) — "  you  see  Herschell,  though  he  be  a  sinister  chap 
eno\  specially  in  affairs  connected  with  'tother  sex,  dis- 
poses the  native  to  dive  into  the  mysteries  of  natur.  I'm 
a  Herschell  man,  out  and  outer  I  Born  in  March,  and — " 

"As  mad  as  its  hares,"  muttered  Yance,  wrenching  his 
button  from  the  Cobbler's  grasp,  and  impatiently  striding 
off.  But  he  did  not  effect  his  escape  so  easily,  for,  close 
at  hand,  just  at  the  corner  of  tke  lane,  a  female  group, 
headed  by  Merle's  gaunt  housekeeper,  had  been  silently 
collecting  from  the  moment  the  two  friends  had  paused  at 
the  Cobbler's  door.  And  this  petticoated  divan  suddenly 
closing  round  the  painter,  one  pulled  him  by  the  sleeve, 
another  by  the  jacket,  and  a  third,  with  a  nose  upon  which 
somebody  had  sat  in  early  infancy,  whispered,  "  Please, 
Sir,  take  my  picter  fust." 

Yance  stared  aghast  —  "  Your  picture,  you  drab  ! " 
Here  another  model  of  rustic  charms,  who  might  have 
furnished  an  ideal  for  the  fat  scullion  in  Tristram  Shandy, 
bobbing  a  courtesy,  put  in  her  rival  claim. 

"  Sir,  if  you  don't  objex  to  coming  in  to  the  kitching, 
after  the  family  has  gone  to  bed,  I  don't  care  if  I  lets  yon 
make  a  minnytur  of  me  for  two  pounds." 
10*  H 


114  WI1A.T    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"Miniature  of  you,  porpoise!" 

"Polly,  Sir,  not  Porpus  —  ax  pardon.  I  shall  clean 
myself,  and  I  have  a  butyful  new  cap — Honeytun,  and — " 
"  Let  the  gentleman  go,  will  you  ? "  said  a  third  ;  "  1 
am  supprised  at  ye,  Polly.  The  kitching  unbeknown  1 
Sir,  I'm  in  the  nussary  —  yes,  Sir  —  and  missus  says  you 
may  take  me  any  time,  purvided  you'll  take  the  babby,  in 
the  back  parlor  —  yes.  Sir.  No.  5  in  the  High  Street. 
Mrs  Spratt — ^yes,  Sir.  Babby  has  had  the  small-pox  — . 
in  case  you're  a  married  gentleman  with  a  family — quite 
safe  there  —  yes,  Sir." 

Yance  could  endure  no  more,  and,  forgetful  of  that 
gallantry  which  should  never  desert  the  male  sex,  burst 
through  the  phalanx  with  an  anathema,  blackening  alike 
the  beauty  and  the  virlwe  of  those  on  whom  it  fell — that 
would  have  justified  a  cry  of  shame  from  every  manly 
bosom,  and  at  once  changed  into  shrill  wrath  the  suppli- 
catory tones  with  which  he  had  been  hitherto  addressed. 
Down  the  street  he  hurried,  and  down  the  street  followed 
the  insulted  fair.     "  Hiss  — hiss  —  no  gentleman,  no  gen- 
tleman !    Aha — skulk  off — do — low  blaggurd  !  "  shrieked 
Polly.     From  their  counters  shop-folks  rushed  to  their 
doors.     Stray  dogs,  excited  by  the  clamor,   ran  wildly 
after   the   fugitive    man,  yelping   "  in  madding  bray  I " 
Vance,  fearing  to  be  clawed  by  the  females  if  he  merely 
walked,  sure  to  be  bitten  by  the  dogs  if  he  ran,  ambled 
on,  strove  to  look  composed,  and  carry  his  nose  high  in 
Its  native  air,  till,  clearing  the  street,  he  saw  a  hedgerow 
to  the  right — leaped  it  with  an  agility  which  no  stimulus 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  115 

less  preternatural  than  that  of  self-preservation  could 
have  given  to  his  limbs,  and  then  shot  off  like  an  arrow, 
and  did  not  stop  till,  out  of  breath,  he  dropped  upon  the 
bench  in  the  sheltering  honey-suckle  arbor.  Here  he 
was  still  fanning  himself  with  his  cap,  and  muttering  un- 
mentionable expletives,  when  he  was  joined  by  Lionel, 
who  had  tarried  behind  to  talk  more  about  Sophy  to  the 
Cobbler,  and  who,  unconscious  that  the  din  which  smote 
his  ear  was  caused  by  his  ill-starred  friend,  had  been  en- 
ticed to  go  up  stairs  and  look  after  Sophy  in  the  crystal 
—  vainly.  When  Yance  had  recited  his  misadventures, 
and  Lionel  had  sufficiently  condoled  with  him,  it  became 
time  for  the  latter  to  pay  his  share  of  the  bill,  pack  up 
his  knapsack,  and  start  for  the  train.  Now  the  station 
could  only  be  reached  by  penetrating  the  heart  of  the 
village,  and  Yance  swore  that  he  had  had  enough  of  that. 
"  Peste ! "  said  he ;  "I  should  pass  right  before  No.  5  in 
the  High  Street,  and  the  nuss  and  the  babby  will  be 
there  on  the  threshold,  like  Yirgil's  picture  of  the  infernal 
regions  — 

'  Infantumque  animse  flentes  in  limine  primo.' 

We  will  take  leave  of  each  other  here.  I  shall  go  by  the 
boat  to  Chertsey  whenever  I  shall  have  sufficiently  re- 
covered my  shaken  nerves.  There  are  one  or  two  pictu- 
resque spots  to  be  seen  in  that  neighborhood.  In  a  few 
days  I  shall  be  in  town ;  write  to  me  there,  and  tell  me 
how  you  get  on.  Shake  hands,  and  Heaven  speed  you 
But,  ah,  now  you  have  paid  your  moiety  of  the  bill,  have 
you  enough  left  for  the  train  ? " 


116  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

*'  Oh,  yes,  the  fare  is  but  a  few  shillings ;  but,  to  be 
sure,  a  fly  to  Fawley  ?  I  ought  not  to  go  on  foot" 
(proudly)  j  "  and,  too,  supposing  he  affronts  me,  and  I 
have  to  leave  his  house  suddenly?  May  I  borrow  a 
sovereign?  my  mother  will  call  and  repay  it." 

Yance  (magnificently).  "  There  it  is,  and  not  much 
more  left  in  my  purse  —  that  cursed  Star  and  Garter  I 
and  those  three  pounds ! " 

Lionel  (sighing).  "  Which  were  so  well  spent  I  Before 
you  sell  that  picture,  do  let  me  make  a  copy." 

Yance.  "Better  take  a  model  of  your  own.  Yillage 
full  of  them  ;  you  could  bargain  with  a  porpoise  for  half 
the  money  which  I  was  duped  into  squandering  away  on 
a  chit  I  But  don't  look  so  grave  ;  you  may  copy  me  if 
you  can  1 " 

"Time  to  start,  and  must  walk  brisk,  Sir,"  said  the 
jolly  landlord,  looking  in. 

"  Good-by,  good-by." 

And  so  departed  Lionel  Haughton  upon  an  enterprise 
as  momentous  to  that  youth-errant  as  Perilous  Bridge  or 
Dragon's  Cave  could  have  been  to  knight-errant  of  old. 

"  Before  we  decide  on  having  done  with  each  other,  & 
short  visit"  —  so  ran  the  challenge  from  him  who  had 
everything  to  give  unto  him  who  had  everything  to  gain. 
And  how  did  Lionel  Haughton,  the  ambitious  and 
aspiring,  contemplate  the  venture  in  which  success  would 
admit  him  within  the  gates  of  the  golden  Carduel  an 
equal  in  the  lists  with  the  sons  of  paladins,  or  throw  him 
back  to  the  arms  of  the  widow  who  let  a  first  floor  in  the 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  Ill 

back  streets  of  Pimlico  ?  Truth  to  say,  as  he  strode 
mnsiugly  toward  the  station  for  starting,  where  the  smoke- 
cloud  now  curled  from  the  wheel-track  of  iron  —  truth  to 
say,  the  anxious  doubt  which  disturbed  him  was  not  that 
which  his  friends  might  have  felt  on  his  behalf.  In  words, 
it  would  have  shaped  itself  thus,  "Where  is  that  poor 
little  Sophy  I  and  what  will  become  of  her  —  what?" 
But,  when,  launched  on  the  journey,  hurried  on  to  its 
goal,  the  thought  of  the  ordeal  before  him  forced  itself 
on  his  mind,  he  muttered  inly  to  himself,  "  Done  with 
each  other ;  let  it  be  as  he  pleases,  so  that  I  do  not  fawn 
on  his  pleasure.  Better  a  million  times  enter  life  as  a 
penniless  gentleman,  who  must  work  his  way  up  like  a 
man,  than  as  one  who  creeps  on  his  knees  into  fortune, 
shaming  birthright  of  gentleman,  or  soiling  honor  of  man." 
Therefore,  taking  into  account  the  poor  cousin's  vigilant 
pride  on  the  qui  vive  for  offense,  and  the  rich  cousin's 
temper  (as  judged  by  his  letters)  rude  enough  to  present 
it,  we  must  own  that  if  Lionel  Haughton  has  at  this 
moment  what  is  commonly  called  "a  chance,"  the  ques- 
tion as  yet  is  not,  what  is  that  chance,  but  what  will  he 
do  with  it  ?  And  as  the  reader  advances  in  this  history, 
he  will  acknowledge  that  there  are  few  questions  in  this 
world  so  frequently  agitated,  to  which  the  solution  is 
more  important  to  each  puzzled  mortal,  than  that  upon 
which  starts  every  sage's  discovery,  every  novelist's  plot 
—that  which  applies  to  man's  life,  from  its  first  sleep  in 
the  cradle,  "What  wili  he  do  with  it?" 


BOOK    SECOND. 


CHAPTER   I. 

Primitive  character  of  the  country  in  certain  districts  of  Great 
Britain.  —  Connection  between  the  features  of  surrounding 
scenery  and  the  mental  and  moral  inclinations  of  man,  after  the 
fashion  of  all  sound  Ethnological  Historians. — A  charioteer,  to 
whom  an  experience  of  British  Laws  suggests  an  ingenious  mode 
of  arresting  the  progress  of  Roman  Papacy,  carries  Lionel 
Haughton  and  his  fortunes  to  a  place  which  allows  of  descrip- 
tion and  invites  repose. 

In  safety,  but  with  naught  else  rare  enough,  in  a  rail- 
way train,  to  deserve  commemoration,  Lionel  reached  the 
station  to  which  he  was  bound.  He  there  inquired  the 
distance  to  Fawley  Manor  House  ;  it  was  five  miles.  He 
ordered  a  fly,  and  was  soon  wheeled  briskly  along  a 
rough  parish-road,  through  a  country  strongly  contrast- 
ing the  gay  river  scenery  he  had  so  lately  quitted. 
Quite  as  English,  but  rather  the  England  of  a  former 
race  than  that  which  spreads  round  our  own  generation 
like  one  vast  suburb  of  garden-ground  and  villas.  Here, 
uor  village,  nor  spire,  nor  porter's  lodge  came  in  sight. 
Hare  even  were  the  corn-fields  —  wide  spaces  of  unin- 
closed  common    opened,  solitary  and    primitive,  on  the 

(118) 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  119 

rood,  bordered  by  large  woods,  chiefly  of  beech,  closing 
the  horizon  with  ridp;es  of  undulating  green.  In  such  an 
England,  Knights-Templars  might  have  wended  their 
way  to  scattered  monasteries,  or  fugitive  partisans  in  the 
bloody  Wars  of  the  Roses  have  found  shelter  under  leafy 
coverts. 

The  scene  had  its  romance,  its  beauty  —  half-savage, 
half-gentle  —  leading  perforce  the  mind  of  any  cultivated 
and  imaginative  gazer  far  back  from  the  present  day  — 
waking  up  long-forgotten  passages  from  old  poets.  The 
stillness  of  such  wastes  of  sward  —  such  deeps  of  wood- 
land—  induced  the  nurture  of  reverie,  gravely  soft  and 
lulling.  There,  Ambition  might  give  rest  to  the  wheel 
of  Ixion,  Avarice  to  the  sieve  of  the  Danaids ;  there, 
disappointed  Love  might  muse  on  the  brevity  of  all  hu- 
man passions,  and  count  over  the  tortured  hearts  that 
have  found  peace  in  holy  meditation,  or  are  now  stilled 
under  grassy  knolls.  See  where,  at  the  crossing  of  three 
roads  upon  the  waste,  the  landscape  suddenly  unfolds  — 
an  upland  in  the  distance,  and  on  the  upland  a  building, 
the  first  sign  of  social  man.  What  is  the  building  ?  only 
a  silenced  wind-mill  —  the  sails  dark  and  sharp  against 
the  dull,  leaden  sky. 

Lionel  touched  the  driver  — "  Are  we  yet  on  Mr.  Dar- 
rell's  property  ?"  Of  the  extent  of  that  property  he  had 
'nvoluntarily  conceived  a  vast  idea. 

"  Lord,  Sir,  no  ;  we  be  two  miles  from  Squire  DarrcU's. 
lie  han't  much  property  to  speak  of  hereabouts.  But  he 
oought   a  good  bit  o'  laud,  too,  some  years  ago,  ten  or 


120  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

twelve  mile  t'other  side  o'  the  country.  First  time  yon 
are  going  to  Fawlej,   Sir  ?" 

''Yes." 

"  Ah  !  I  don't  mind  seeing  you  afore  —  and  I  should 
have  known  you  if  I  had,  for  it  is  seldom  indeed  I  have 
a  fare  to  Fawley  old  Manor  House.  It  must  be,  I  take 
it,  four  or  five  year  ago  sin'  I  wor  there  with  a  gent,  and 
he  went  away  while  I  wor  feeding  the  horse  —  did  me 
out  o'  my  back  fare.  What  bissness  had  he  to  walk 
when  he  came  in  my  fly?  —  Shabby." 

"Mr.  Darrell  lives  very  retired,  then  —  sees  few  per- 
sons?" 

"  S'pose  so.  I  never  see'd  him,  as  I  knows  on  ;  see'd 
two  o'  his  bosses  though  —  rare  good  uns  ;"  and  the 
driver  whipped  on  his  own  horse,  took  to  whistling,  and 
Lionel  asked  no  more. 

At  length  the  chaise  stopped  at  a  carriage-gate,  rece- 
ding from  the  road,  and  deeply  shadowed  by  venerable  trees 

—  no  lodge.     The  driver,  dismounting,  opened  the  gate. 
"  Is  this  the  place  ?" 

The  driver  nodded  assent,  remounted,  and  drove  on  rap- 
idly through  what  might,  by  courtesy,  be  called  a  park. 
The  inclosure  was  indeed  little*  beyond  that  of  a  good- 
sized  paddock  —  its  boundaries  were  visible  on  every  side 

—  but  swelling  uplands,  covered  with  massy  foliage,  sloped 
down  to  its  wild,  irregular  turf  soil  —  soil  poor  for  pas- 
turage, but  pleasant  to  the  eye  ;  with  dell  and  dingle, 
bosks  of  fantastic  pollards  —  dotted  oaks  of  vast  growth 

—  here  and  there  a  weird  hollow  thorn-tree  —  patches  of 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  121 

fern  and  gorse.  Hoarse  and  loud  cawed  the  rooks  —  and 
deep,  deep  as  from  the  innermost  core  of  the  lovely  wood- 
lands, came  the  mellow  notes  of  the  cuckoo.  A  few  mo- 
ments more  a  wind  of  the  road  brought  the  house  in  sight 
At  its  rear  lay  a  piece  of  water,  scarcely  large  enough  to 
be  styled  a  lake  ;  — too  winding  in  its  shaggy  banks  —  its 
eids  too  concealed  by  tree  and  islet  to  be  called  by  the 
dull  name  of  pond.  Such  as  it  was,  it  arrested  the  eye 
before  the  gaze  turned  toward  the  house — it  had  an  air 
of  tranquillity  so  sequestered,  so  solemn.  A  lively  man 
of  the  world  would  have  been  seized  with  spleen  at  the 
first  glimpse  of  it.  But  he  who  had  known  some  great 
grief — some  anxious  care  —  would  have  drunk  the  calm 
into  his  weary  soul  like  au  anodyne.  The  house  —  small, 
low,  ancient,  about  the  date  of  Edward  YI.,  before  the 
statelier  architecture  of  Elizabeth.  Few  houses  in  Eng- 
land so  old,  indeed,  as  Fawley  Manor  house.  A  vast 
weight  of  roof,  with  high  gables  —  windows  on  the  upper 
story  projecting  far  over  the  lower  part — a  covered  porch 
with  a  coat  of  half- obliterated  arms  deep  panneled  over 
the  oak  door.  Nothing  grand,  yet  all  how  venerable  I 
But  what  is  this  ?  Close  beside  the  old,  quiet,  unassuming 
Manor  House,  rises  the  skeleton  of  a  superb  and  costly 
pile  —  a  palace  uncompleted,  and  the  work  evidently  sus- 
pended—  perhaps  long  since,  perhaps  now  forever.  No 
busy  workmen  nor  animated  scaffolding.  The  perforated 
battlements  roofed  over  with  visible  haste — here  with 
glate,  there  with  tile  ;  the  Elizabethan  mullion  casements 
ancrlazod  :  some  roughly  boarded  across  —  some  with 
I  —11 


122  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

staring,  forlorn  apertures,  that  showed  floorless  chambers 

—  for  winds  to  whistle  through  and  rats  to  tenant.  Weeds 
and  long  grass  were  growing  over  blocks  of  stone  that 
lay  at  hand.  A  wall-flower  had  forced  into  root  on  the 
sill  of  a  giant  oriel.  The  effect  was  startling.  A  fabric 
which  he  who  conceived  it  must  have  founded  for  poste- 
rity—  so  solid  its  masonry,  so  thick  its  walls  —  and  thus 
abruptly  left  to  molder  —  a  palace  constructed  for  the  re- 
ception of  crowding  guests  —  the  pomp  of  stately  revels 

—  abandoned  to  owl  and  bat.  And  the  homely  old  house 
beside  it,  which  that  lordly  hall  was  doubtless  designed  to 
replace,  looking  so  safe  and  tranquil  at  the  baffled  pre- 
sumption of  its  spectral  neighbor. 

The  driver  had  rung  the  bell,  and  now,  turning  back  to 
the  chaise,  met  Lionel's  inquiring  eye,  and  said  —  "Yes  ; 
Squire  Darrell  began  to  build  that  —  many  years  ago  — 
when  I  was  a  boy.  I  heerd  say  it  was  to  be  the  show- 
house  of  the  whole  county.  Been  stopped  these  ten  or  a 
dozen  years." 

"Why?  — do  you  know?" 

"  No  one  knows.  Squire  was  a  laryer,  I  b'leve  —  per- 
haps he  put  it  into  Chancery.  My  wife's  grandfather  was 
put  into  Chancery  jist  as  he  was  growing  up,  and  never 
grew  afterward  —  never  got  out  o'  it  —  nout  ever  does. 
There's  our  churchwarden  comes  to  me  with  a  petition  to 
sign  agin  the  Pope.  Says  I,  '  That  old  Pope  is  always  in 
t:ouble  —  what's  he  bin  doin'  now  ? '  Says  he,  '  Spread- 
ing !  He's  got  into  Parlyment,  and  he's  now  got  a  col- 
ledge,  and  we  pays  for  it,     I  doesn't  know  how  to  stop 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  123 

him.'  Says  I,  'Put  the  Pope  into  Chancery  along  with 
wife's  grandfather,  and  he'll  never  hold  up  his  head 
agin'" 

The  driver  had  thus  just  disposed  of  the  Papacy  when 
an  elderly  servant,  out  of  livery,  opened  the  door.  Lionel 
sprung  from  the  chaise,  and  paused  in  some  confusion  — 
for  then,  for  the  first  time,  there  darted  across  him  the 
idea  that  he  had  never  written  to  announce  his  accept- 
ance of  Mr.  Darrell's  invitation  —  that  he  ought  to  have 
done  so— that  he  might  not  be  expected.  Meanwhile  the 
servant  surveyed  him  with  some  surprise.  "  Mr.  Darrell  ?  " 
hesitated  Lionel,  inquiringly. 

"Not  at  home,  Sir,"  replied  the  man,  as  if  Lionel's 
business  was  over,  and  he  had  only  to  re-enter  his  chaise. 
The  boy  was  naturally  rather  bold  than  shy,  and  he  said, 
with  a  certain  assured  air,  "  My  name  is  Haughton.  I 
come  here  on  Mr.  Darrell's  invitation." 

The  servant's  face  changed  in  a  moment  —  he  bowed 
respectfully.  "  I  beg  pardon,  Sir.  I  will  look  for  my 
master — he  is  somewhere  on  the  grounds."  The  servant 
then  approached  the  fly,  took  out  the  knapsack,  and  ob- 
serving Lionel  had  his  purse  in  his  hand,  said  —  "Allow 
me  to  save  you  that  trouble,  Sir.  Driver,  round  to  the 
stable-yard."  Stepping  back  into  the  house,  the  servant 
threw  open  a  door  to  the  left,  on  entrance,  and  advanced 
a  chair — "  If  you  will  wait  here  a  moment,  Sir,  I  will  see 
"or  my  master." 


124  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    Ilf 


CHAPTER   II 


Guj  Darrell  — and  Still'd  Life. 


The  room  in  which  Lionel  now  found  himself  was  sin- 
gularly quaint.  An  antiquarian  or  architect  would  have 
discovered  at  a  glance  that,  at  some  period,  it  had  formed 
part  of  the  entrance-hall ;  and  when,  in  Elizabeth's  or 
James  the  First's  day,  the  refinement  in  manners  begaE 
to  penetrate  from  baronial  mansions  to  the  homes  of  the 
gentry,  and  the  entrance-hall  ceased  to  be  the  common 
refectory  of  the  owner  and  his  dependents,  this  apartment 
had  been  screened  oflf  by  perforated  panels,  which,  for  the 
eake  of  warmth  and  comfort,  had  been  filled  up  into  solid 
wainscot  by  a  succeeding  generation.  Thus  one  side  of 
the  room  was  richly  carved  with  geometrical  designs  and 
arabesque  pilasters,  while  the  other  three  sides  were  in 
small  simple  panels,  with  a  deep  fantastic  frieze  in  plaster, 
depicting  a  deer-chase  in  relief,  and  running  between 
woodwork  and  ceiling.  The  ceiling  itself  was  relieved 
by  long  pendants  without  any  apparent  meaning,  and  by 
the  crest  of  the  Darrells,  a  heron,  wreathed  round  with 
the  family  motto,  "Ardiia  petit  Ardea.''^  It  was  a  dining- 
room,  as  was  shown  by  the  character  of  the  furniture. 
But  there  was  no  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  present 
owner,  and  had  clearly  been  none  on  the  part  of  his  pre 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  125 

decessor,  to  suit  the  furniture  to  the  room.  This  last  was 
of  the  heavy  graceless  taste  of  George  the  First  —  cum 
brous  chairs  in  walnut-tree  —  with  a  worm-eaten  mosaic 
of  the  heron  on  their  homely  backs,  and  a  faded  blue 
worsted  on  their  seats  —  a  marvellous  ugly  sideboard  to 
match,  and  on  it  a  couple  of  black  shagreen  cases,  the 
lida  of  which  were  flung  open,  and  discovered  the  pistol 
shaped  handles  of  silver  knives.  The  mantle-piece  reached 
to  the  ceiling,  in  paneled  compartments,  with  heraldic 
shields,  and  supported  by  rude  stone  Caryatides.  On  the 
walls  were  several  pictures  —  family  portraits,  for  the 
names  were  inscribed  on  the  frames.  They  varied  in  date 
from  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  to  that  of  George  I.  A  strong 
family  likeness  pervaded  them  all  —  high  features,  dark 
hair,  grave  aspects — save  indeed  one,  a  Sir  Ralph  Haugh- 
ton  Darrell,  in  a  dress  that  spoke  him  of  the  holiday  date 
of  Charles  II.  —  all  knots,  lace,  and  ribbons ;  evidently 
the  beau  of  the  race ;  and  he  had  blue  eyes,  a  blonde 
peruke,  a  careless  profligate  smile,  and  looked  altogether 
as  devil-me-care,  rakehelly,  handsome,  good-for-naught, 
as  ever  swore  at  a  drawer,  beat  a  watchman,  charmed  a 
lady,  terrified  a  husband,  and  hummed  a  song  as  he  pinked 
bis  man. 

Lionel  was  still  gazing  upon  the  effigies  of  this  airy 
cavalier,  when  the  door  behind  him  opened  very  noise- 
lessly, and  a  man  of  imposing  presence  stood  on  the 
threshold — stood  so  still,  and  the  carved  moldings  of  the 
door-way  so  shadowed,  and,  as  it  were,  cased  round  his 
figure,  that  Lionel,  on  turning  quickly,  might  have  mis- 
11* 


126  "WHat  will  he  do  with  it? 

takci.  him  for  a  portrait  brought  into  bold  relief,  from  it« 
frame,  by  a  sudden  fall  of  light.  We  hear  it,  indeed, 
familiarly  said  that  such  a  one  is  like  an  old  picture. 
Never  could  it  be  more  appositely  said  than  of  the  face 
on  which  the  young  visitor  gazed,  much  startled  and  some- 
what awed.  Not  such  as  inferior  limners  had  painted  in 
the  portraits  there,  though  it  had  something  in  comnccn 
with  those  family  lineaments,  but  such  as  might  have 
looked  tranquil  power  out  of  the  canvas  of  Titian. 

The  man  stepped  forward,  and  the  illusion  passed.  "  I 
thank  you,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand,  "  for  taking  me 
at  my  word,  and  answering  me  thus  in  person."  He  paused 
a  moment,  surveying  Lionel's  countenance  with  a  keen 
but  not  unkindly  eye,  and  added  softly,  "  Yery  like  your 
father." 

At  these  words  Lionel  involuntarily  pressed  the  hand 
which  he  had  taken.  That  hand  did  not  return  the 
pressure.  It  lay  an  instant  in  Lionel's  warm  clasp  —  not 
repelling,  not  responding  —  and  was  then  very  gently 
withdrawn. 

"  Did  you  come  from  London  ? " 

"  No,  Sir,  I  found  your  letter  yesterday  at  Hampton 
Court.  I  had  been  staying  some  days  in  that  neighbor- 
hood. I  came  on  this  morning  —  I  was  afraid,  too  un- 
ceremoniously ;  your  kind  welcome  reassures  me  l:ien." 

The  words  were  well  chosen,  and  frankly  said.  Pi'obably 
they  pleased  the  host,  for  the  expression  of  his  countenance 
was,  on  the  whole,  propitious  ;  but  he  merely  inclined  his 
head  with  a  kind  of  lofty  indifference,  then,  glancing  at 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  121 

his   watch,   lie    rang    the    bell.      The    servant    entered 
promptly.     "  Let  dinner  be  served  within  an  hour." 

"Pray,  Sir,"  said  Lionel,  "do  not  change  your  hours 
on  my  account." 

Mr.  Darrell's  brow  slightly  contracted.  Lionel's  tact 
was  in  fault  there  ;  but  the  great  man  answered  quietly, 
"All  hours  are  the  same  to  me ;  and  it  were  strange  if  a 
host  could  be  deranged  by  consideration  to  his  guest  — 
on  the  first  day  too.  Are  you  tired  ?  Would  you  like 
to  go  to  your  room,  or  look  out  for  half  an  hour  ?  The 
sky  is  clearing." 

"I  should  so  like  to  look  out,  Sir." 

"This  way,  then." 

Mr.  Darrell,  crossing  the  hall,  threw  open  a  door  op- 
posite to  that  by  which  Lionel  entered,  and  the  lake  (we 
will  so  call  it)  lay  before  them.  Separated  from  the  house 
only  by  a  shelving,  gradual  declivity,  on  which  were  a  few 
beds  of  flowers  —  not  the  most  in  vogue  nowadays  —  and 
disposed  in  rambling,  old-fashioned  parterres.  At  ono 
angle  a  quaint  and  dilapidated  sun-dial ;  at  the  other  a 
long  bowling-alley,  terminated  by  one  of  those  summer- 
houses  which  the  Dutch  taste,  following  the  Revolution 
of  1688,  brought  into  fashion.  Mr.  Darrell  passed  down 
this  alley  (no  bowls  there  now),  and,  observing  that 
Lionel  looked  curiously  toward  the  summer  house,  of 
which  the  doors  stood  open,  entered  it.  A  lofty  room, 
with  coved  ceiling,  painted  with  Roman  trophies  of  helma 
and  fasces,  alternated  with  crossed  fifes  and  fiddles,  painted 
alsc 


128  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"  Amsterdam  manners, "  said  Mr.  Darrell,  slightly 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  Here  a  former  race  heard 
music,  sung  glees,  and  smoked  from  clay  pipes.  That 
age  soon  passed,  unsuited  to  English  energies,  which  are 
not  to  be  united  with  Holland  phlegm !  But  the  view 
from  the  window  —  look  out  there.  I  wonder  whether 
men  in  wigs  and  women  in  hoops  enjoyed  that.  It  is  a 
mercy  they  did  not  clip  those  banks  into  a  straight 
canal  I " 

The  view  was  indeed  lovely  ;  the  water  looked  so  blue, 
and  so  large,  and  so  limpid,  woods  and  curving  banks  re- 
flected deep  on  its  peaceful  bosom. 

"  Hov»^  Vance  would  enjoy  this  1 "  cried  Lionel.  "  It 
would  come  into  a  picture  even  better  than  the  Thames." 

"  Yance  —  who  is  Yance  ?  " 

"  The  artist — a  great  friend  of  mine.  Surely,  Sir,  you 
have  heard  of  him,  or  seen  his  pictures  ?  " 

"  Himself  and  his  pictures  are  since  my  time.  Days 
tread  down  days  for  the  Recluse,  and  he  forgets  that  ce- 
lebrities rise  with  their  suns,  to  wane  with  their  moons — 

'  Truditur  dies  die, 
Novaeque  pergunt  interire  lunge.'" 

"All  suns  do  not  set  —  all  moons  do  not  wane  ! "  cried 
Lionel,  with  blunt  enthusiasm.  "  When  Horace  speaks 
elsewhere  of  the  Julian  star,  he  compares  it  to  a  moon  — 
^inierignes  minores^  ■ — and  surely  Fame  is  not  among 
the  orbs  which  ^pergunt  interire^  hasten  on  to  perish  ! " 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  retain  your  recollection  of 
Horace,"  said  Mr.  Darrell,  frigidly,  and  without  continuing 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  129 

the  allusion  to  celebrities,  "the  most  charming  of  all 
poets  to  a  man  of  my  years,  and  "  (he  very  dryly  added^ 
"the  most  useful  for  popular  quotation  to  men  at  any 
age." 

Then  sauntering  forth  carelessly,  he  descended  the 
sloping  turf,  came  to  the  water-side,  and  threw  himself 
at  length  on  the  grass  —  the  wild  thyme  which  he  crushed 
sent  up  its  bruised  fragrance.  There,  resting  his  face  on 
his  hand,  Darrell  gazed  along  the  water  in  abstracted  si- 
lence. Lionel  felt  that  he  was  forgotten  ;  but  he  was  not 
hurt.  By  this  time  a  strong  and  admiring  interest  for 
his  cousin  had  sprung  up  within  his  breast  —  he  would 
have  found  it  difficult  to  explain  why.  But  whosoever  at 
that  moment  could  have  seen  Guy  Darrell's  musing  coun- 
tenance, or  whosoever,  a  few  minutes  before,  could  have 
heard  the  very  sound  of  his  voice  —  sweetly,  clearly  full 
— each  slow  enunciation  unaffectedly,  mellowly  distinct — ■ 
making  musical  the  homeliest,  roughest  word,  would  have 
understood  and  shared  the  interest  which  Lionel  could 
not  explain.  There  are  living  human  faces  which,  inde- 
pendently of  mere  physical  beauty,  charm  and  enthrall  ua 
more  than  the  most  perfect  lineaments  which  Greek 
sculptor  ever  lent  to  a  marble  face  :  there  are  key-notes 
in  the  thrilling  human  voice,  simply  uttered,  which  can 
haunt  the  heart,  rouse  the  passions,  lull  rampant  multi- 
tudes, shake  into  dust  the  thrones  of  guarded  kings,  and 
effect  more  wonders  than  ever  yet  have  been  wrought  by 
ihe  most  artful  chorus  or  the  deftest  quill. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  swans  from  the  farther  end  of  the 
I 


130  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

water  came  sailing  swiftly  toward  the  bank  on  which 
Darrell  reclined.  He  had  evidently  made  friends  with 
them,  and  they  rested  their  white  breasts  close  on  the 
margin,  seeking  to  claim  his  notice  with  a  low  hissing 
salutation,  which,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  they  change  foi 
something  less  sibilant  in  that  famous  song  with  which 
they  depart  this  life. 

Darrell  looked  up.  "  They  come  to  be  fed,"  said  he, 
"smooth  emblems  of  the  great  social  union.  Affection 
is  the  offspring  of  utility.  I  am  useful  to  them — they 
love  me."  He  rose,  uncovered,  and  bowed  to  the  birds 
in  mock  courtesy :  "  Friends,  I  have  no  bread  to  give 
you." 

Lionel.  "  Let  me  run  in  for  some  :  I  would  be  useful 
too." 

Mr.  Darrell.  "  Rival !  useful  to  my  swans  ?  " 

Lionel  (tenderly).   "  Or  to  you,  Sir." 

He  felt  as  if  he  had  said  too  much,  and  without  wait- 
ing for  permission,  ran  in-doors  to  find  some  one  whom 
be  could  ask  for  the  bread. 

"  Sonless,  childless,  hopeless,  objectless  I "  said  Darrell, 
raurmuringly,  to  himself,  and  sunk  again  into  reverie. 

By  the  time  Lionel  returned  with  the  bread,  another 
petted  friend  had  joined  the  master.  A  tame  doe  had 
caught  sight  of  him  from  her  covert  far  away,  came  in 
light  bounds  to  his  side,  and  was  putting  her  delicate 
nostril  into  his  drooping  hand.  At  the  sound  of  Lionel's 
hurried  step  she  took  flight,  trotted  off  a  few  paces,  then 
turned,  looking  wistfully. 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  131 

"I  did  !iot  know  you  had  deer  here." 

"  Deer  i  in  this  little  paddock  !  of  course  not ;  only  that 
doe.  Fairthorn  introduced  her  here.  By-the-by,"  con- 
tinued Darrell,  who  was  now  throwing  the  bread  to  the 
swans,  and  had  resumed  his  careless,  unmeditative  manner, 
"you  were  not  aware  that  I  have  a  brother  hermit  —  a 
companion  besides  the  swans  and  the  doe.  Dick  Fair- 
thorn  is  a  year  or  two  younger  than  myself,  the  son  of  my 
father's  bailiff.  He  was  the  cleverest  boy  at  his  grammar- 
school.  Unluckily  he  took  to  the  flute,  and  unfitted  him- 
self for  the  present  century.  He  condescends,  however, 
to  act  as  my  secretary  —  a  fair  classical  scholar  —  plays 
chess  —  is  useful  to  me  —  I  am  useful  to  him.  We  have 
an  affection  for  each  other.  I  never  forgive  any  one  who 
laughs  at  him.  The  half-hour  bell,  and  you  will  meet 
him  at  dinner.      Shall  we  come  in  and  dress  ?  " 

They  entered  the  house  —  the  same  man-servant  was 
in  attendance  in  the  hall.  "  Show  Mr.  Haughton  to  his 
room."  Darrell  inclined  his  head  —  I  use  that  phrase, 
for  the  gesture  was  neither  bow  nor  nod  —  turned  dow» 
a  narrow  passage,  and  disappeared. 

Led  up  an  uneven  stair-case  of  oak,  black  as  ebony, 
with  huge  balustrades,  and  newel-posts  supporting  clumsy 
balls,  Lionel  was  conducted  to  a  small  chamber,  modern- 
ized a  century  ago  by  a  faded  Chinese  paper,  and  a 
mahogany  bedstead,  which  took  up  three-fourths  of  the 
space,  and  was  crested  with  dingy  plumes,  that  gave  it 
the  cheerful  look  of  a  hearse  ;  and  there  the  attendant 
said,  "  Have  you  the  key  of  your  knapsack.   Sir?  shall  I 


132  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

pat  out  your  things  to  dress  ?  "  Dress  i  Then  for  the 
first  time  the  boj  remembered  that  he  had  brought  with 
him  DO  evening-dress  —  nay,  evening-dress,  properly  so 
called,  he  possessed  not  at  all  in  any  corner  of  the  world. 
It  had  never  yet  entered  into  his  modes  of  existence. 
Call  to  mind  when  you  were  a  boy  of  seventeen,  "betwixt 
two  ages  hovering  like  a  star,"  and  imagine  Lionel's 
sensations.  He  felt  his  cheek  burn  as  if  he  had  been  de- 
tected in  a  crime.  "I  have  no  dress  things,"  he  said, 
piteously;  "only  a  change  of  linen,  and  this,"  glancing  at 
the  summer  jacket.  The  servant  was  evidently  a  most 
gentlemanlike  man — his  native  sphere  that  of  groom  of 
the  chambers.  "  I  will  mention  it  to  Mr.  Darrell ;  and  if 
you  will  favor  me  with  your  address  in  London,  I  will 
send  to  telegraph  for  what  you  want  against  to-morrow." 

"Many  thanks,"  answered  Lionel,  recovering  his  pre- 
sence of  mind  ;  "  I  will  speak  to  Mr.  Darrell  myself." 

"  There  is  the  hot  water.  Sir ;  that  is  the  bell.  I  have 
the  honor  to  be  placed  at  your  commands."  The  door 
closed,  and  Lionel  unlocked  his  knapsack  —  other  trow- 
sers,  other  waistcoat,  had  he  —  those  worn  at  the  fair,  and 
once  white.  Alas  !  they  had  not  since  then  passed  to  the 
care  of  the  laundress.  Other  shoes  —  double-soled,  for 
walking.  There  was  no  help  for  it,  but  to  appear  at 
dinner  attired  as  he  had  been  before,  in  his  light  pedes- 
trian jacket,  morning  waistcoat  flowered  with  sprigs,  and 
a  fawn-colored  nether  man.  Could  it  signify  much — • 
only  two  men  ?  Could  the  grave  Mr.  Darrell  regard 
such  trifles  ?     Yes,  if  they  intimated  want  of  due  respect 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  133 

Durum  !  sed  fit  levius  Patientia 
Quicquid  corrigere  est  nefas. 

On  descending  the  stairs,  the  same  high-bred  domestic 
nras  in  waiting  to  show  him  into  the  library.  Mr.  Darrell 
was  there  already,  in  the  simple  but  punctilious  costume 
of  a  gentleman  who  retains  in  seclusion  the  habits  custo- 
mary in  the  world.  At  the  first  glance  Lionel  thought 
he  saw  a  slight  cloud  of  displeasure  on  his  host's  brow 
He  went  up  to  Mr.  Darrell  ingenuously,  and  apologized 
for  the  deficiencies  of  his  itinerant  wardrobe.  "  Say  the 
truth,"  said  his  host;  "you  thought  you  were  coming  to 
an  old  churl,  with  whom  ceremony  was  misplaced." 

"  Indeed,  no  I "  exclaimed  Lionel.  "  But  —  but  I  have 
so  lately  left  school." 

"Your  mother  might  have  thought  for  you." 

"  I  did  not  stay  to  consult  her,  indeed,  Sir ;  I  hope  you 
are  not  offended." 

"  No,  but  let  me  not  offend  you  if  I  take  advantage  of 
my  years  and  our  relationship  to  remark  that  a  young 
man  should  be  careful  not  to  let  himself  down  below  the 
measure  of  his  own  rank.  If  a  king  could  bear  to  hear 
that  he  was  only  a  ceremonial,  a  private  gentleman  may 
remember  that  there  is  but  a  ceremonial  between  himself 
and  —  his  hatter  I  " 

Lionel  felt  the  color  mount  his  brow;  but  Darrell,  press- 
•nir  the  distasteful  theme  no  farther,  and  seemingly  for- 
getting its  purport,  turned  his  remarks  carelessly  toward 
the  weather.  "  It  will  be  fair  to-morrow ;  there  is  no 
mist  on  the  hill  yonder.     Since  you  have  a  painter  for  a 

L  — 12 


134  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

friend,  perhaps  you  yourself  are  a  draughtsman.  There 
are  some  landscape-effects  here  which  Fairthorn  shall 
point  out  to  you." 

"  I  fear,  Mr.  Darrell,'*  said  Lionel,  looking  down,  "  that 
to-morrow  I  must  leave  you." 

'  So  soon  ?  Wfll,  I  suppose  the  place  must  be  very 
dull." 

"  Not  that  —  not  that;  but  I  have  offended  you,  and  I 
would  not  repeat  the  offence.  I  have  not  the  'ceremo- 
nial '  necessary  to  mark  me  as  a  gentleman,  either  here  or 
at  home." 

"  So  !  Bold  frankness  and  ready  wit  command  cere- 
monials," returned  Darrell,  and  for  the  first  time  his  lip 
wore  a  smile.  "  Let  me  present  to  you  Mr.  Fairthorn," 
as  the  door  opening  showed  a  shambling,  awkward  figure, 
with  loose  black  knee-breeches  and  buckled  shoes.  The 
figure  made  a  strange  sidelong  bow,  and  hurrying  in  a 
lateral  course,  like  a  crab  suddenly  alarmed,  toward  a 
dim  recess  protected  by  a  long  table,  sunk  behind  a 
curtain-fold,  and  seemed  to  vanish  as  a  crab  does  amidst 
the  shingles. 

"  Three  minutes  yet  to  dinner,  and  two  before  the 
letter-carrier  goes,"  said  the  host,  glancing  at  his  watch. 
"  Mr.  Fairthorn,  will  you  write  a  note  for  me  ?  "  There 
waa  a  mutter  from  behind  the  curtain.  Darrell  walked 
to  the  place,  and  whispered  a  few  words,  returned  to  the 
hearth,  rang  the  bell.  "Another  letter  for  the  post, 
Mills  :  Mr.  Fairthorn  is  sealing  it.  You  are  looking  at 
r-ty   book-shelves,   Lionel.     As  I  understand  that   yoor 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  135 

master  spoke  highly  of  you,  I  presume  that  you  are  fond 
of  reading." 

"  I  think  so,  but  I  am  not  sure,"  answered  Lionel,  whom 
his  cousin's  conciliatory  words  had  restored  to  ease  and 
good-humor. 

"  You  mean,  perhaps,  that  you  like  reading,  if  you  may 
choose  your  own  books." 

"  Or  rather  if  I  may  choose  my  own  time  to  read  them, 
and  that  would  not  be  on  bright  summer  days." 

"Without  sacrificing  bright  summer  days,  one  finds 
one  has  made  little  progress  when  the  long  winter  nights 
come." 

"  Yes,  Sir.  But  must  the  sacrifice  be  paid  in  books  ? 
I  fancy  I  learned  as  much  in  the  play-ground  as  I  did  in 
the  school-room,  and  for  the  last  few  months,  in  much  my 
own  master,  reading  hard,  in  the  forenoon,  it  is  true,  for 
many  hours  at  a  stretch,  and  yet  again  for  a  few  hours  at 
evening,  but  rambling  also  through  the  streets,  or  listen- 
ing to  a  few  friends  whom  I  have  contrived  to  make  —  1 
think,  if  I  can  boast  of  any  progress  at  all,  the  books 
have  the  smaller  share  in  it." 

**  You  would,  then,  prefer  an  active  life  to  a  studious 
one  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes  —  yes." 

"  Dinner  is  served,"  said  the  decorous  Mr.  Miles,  throw 
ing  open  the  door. 


136  'WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 


CHAPTER   III. 

In  our  happy  country  every  man's  house  is  his  castle.  But,  how« 
ever  stoutly  he  fortify  it,  Care  enters,  as  surely  as  she  did  is 
Horace's  time,  through  the  porticoes  of  a  Koman's  villa.  Nor, 
whether  ceilings  be  fretted  with  gold  and  ivory,  or  whether  only 
colored  with  whitewash,  does  it  matter  to  Care  any  more  than  it 
does  to  a  house-fiy.  But  every  tree,  be  it  cedar  or  blackthorn, 
can  harbor  its  singing-bird ;  and  few  are  the  homes  in  which, 
from  nooks  least  suspected,  there  starts  not  a  music.  Is  it  quite 
true  that  "non  avium  citharaeque  cantus  somnum  reducent?" 
Would  not  even  Damocles  himself  have  forgotten  the  sword,  if 
the  lute  player  had  chanced  upon  the  notes  that  lull  ? 

The  dinner  was  simple  enough,  but  well-dressed  and 
well-served.  One  footman,  in  plain  livery,  assisted  Mr. 
Mills.  Darrell  ate  sparingly,  and  drank  only  water,  which 
was  placed  by  his  side,  iced,  with  a  single  glass  of  wine 
at  the  close  of  the  repast,  which  he  drank  on  bending  his 
head  to  Lionel  with  a  certain  knightly  grace,  and  the 
prefatory  words  of  "  Welcome  here  to  a  Haughton."  Mr. 
Fairthorn  was  less  abstemious  —  tasted  of  every  dish,  after 
examining  it  long  through  a  pair  of  tortoise-shell  specta- 
cles, and  drank  leisurely  through  a  bottle  of  port,  holding 
up  every  glass  to  the  light.  Darrell  talked  with  his  usual 
cold  but  not  uncourteous  indifference.  A  remark  of 
Lionel's  on  the  portraits  in  the  room  turned  the  conver- 
sation chiefly  upon  pictures,  and  the  host  showed  himself 
thoroughly  accomplished  in  the  attributes  of  the  various 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  13t 

Bcliools  and  masters.  Lionel,  who  was  very  fond  of  the 
art,  and,  indeed,  painted  well  for  a  youthful  amateur, 
listened  with  great  delight. 

"  Surely,  Sir,"  said  he,  struck  much  with  a  very  subtU 
observation  upon  the  causes  why  the  Italian  masters  admit 
of  copyists  with  greater  facility  than  the  Flemish  — 
•'  surely.  Sir,  you  must  yourself  have  practised  the  art  of 
painting  ?" 

"  Not  I ;  but  I  instructed  myself  as  a  judge  of  pictures, 
because  at  one  time  I  was  a  collector." 

Fairthorn,  speaking  for  the  first  time  :  "  The  rarest 
collection — such  Albert  Durers  !  such  Holbeins  I  and  that 
head  by  Leonardo  da  Yinci !  "  He  stopped  —  looked 
extremely  frightened — helped  himself  to  the  port  —  turn- 
ing his  back  upon  his  host,  to  hold,  as  usual,  the  glass  to 
the  light, 

"Are  they  here.  Sir,"  asked  Lionel. 

Darrell's  face  darkened,  and  he  made  no  answer ;  but 
his  head  sank  on  his  breast,  and  he  seemed  suddenly 
absorbed  in  gloomy  thought.  Lionel  felt  that  he  had 
touched  a  wrong  chord,  and  glanced  timidly  toward  Fair- 
thorn,  but  that  gentleman  cautiously  held  up  his  finger, 
and  then  rapidly  put  it  to  his  lip,  and  as  rapidly  drew  it 
away.  After  that  signal  the  boy  did  not  dare  to  break 
the  silence,  which  now  lasted  uninterruptedly  till  Darrell 
rose,  and  with  the  formal  and  superfluous  question,  "Any 
more  wine  ?  "  led  the  way  back  to  the  library.  There  he 
ensconced  himself  in  an  easy  chair,  and  saying,  "  Will 
you  find  a  book  for  yourself,  Lionel  ?"  took  a  volume  at 
12* 


138  WHAT     ^ILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

random  fiom  the  nearest  sbelf,  and  soon  seemed  absorbed 
in  its  contents.  The  room,  made  irregular  by  bay-windows, 
and  shelves  that  projected  as  in  public  libraries,  abounded 
with  nook  and  recess.  To  one  of  these  Fairthorn  sidled 
himself,  and  became  invisible.  Lionel  looked  round  the 
shelves.  No  belles  lettres  of  our  immediate  generation 
were  found  there  —  none  of  those  authors  most  in  request 
at  circulating  libraries  and  literary  institutes.  The  shelves 
could  discover  none  more  recent  than  the  Johnsonian  age. 
Neither  in  the  lawyer's  library  were  to  be  found  any  law- 
books— no,  nor  the  pamphlets  and  parliamentary  volumes 
that  should  have  spoken  of  the  once  eager  politician. 
But  there  were  superb  copies  of  the  ancient  classics. 
French  and  Italian  authors  were  not  wanting,  nor  such 
of  the  English  as  have  withstood  the  test  of  time.  The 
larger  portion  of  the  shelves  seemed,  however,  devoted 
to  philosophical  works.  Here  alone  was  novelty  admitted 
—  the  newest  essays  on  science,  or  the  best  editions  of  old 
works  thereon.  Lionel  at  length  made  his  choice  —  a 
volume  of  the  "Faerie  Queen."  Coffee  was  served  ;  at  a 
later  hour,  tea.  The  clock  struck  ten.  Darrell  laid  down 
his  book. 

"  Mr.  Fairthorn  —  the  Flute  !  " 

From  the  recess  a  mutter,  and  presently  —  the  musician 
remaining  still  hidden  —  there  came  forth  the  sweetest 
note  —  so  dulcet,  so  plaintive  !  Lionel's  ear  was  ravished. 
The  music  suited  well  with  the  enchanted  page  through 
which  his  fancy  had  been  wandering  dream-like  —  the 
flute  with  the  "Faerie  Queen."    As  the  air  flowed  J:quid 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH     IT?  13S 

on  Lionel's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  did  not  observe 
that  Darrell  was  intently  watching  him.  When  the  music 
stopped,  he  turned  aside  to  wipe  the  tears  from  his  eyes. 
Somehow  or  other,  what  with  the  poem,  what  with  the 
flute,  his  thoughts  had  wandered  far,  far  hence  to  the 
green  banks  and  blue  waves  of  the  Thames — to  Sophy'a 
charming  face,  to  her  parting  childish  gift  1  And  where 
was  she  now  ?  Whither  passing  away,  after  so  brief  a 
holiday,  into  the  shadows  of  forlorn  life  ? 

Darrell's  bell-like  voice  smote  his  ear. 

*•'  Spenser  !     You  love  him  !     Do  you  wi'ite  poetry  ?" 

"  No,   Sir,  I  only  feel  it ! " 

"  Do  neither  !  "  said  the  host,  abruptly.  Then  turning 
away,  he  lighted  his  candle,  murmured  a  quick  good-night, 
and  disappeared  through  a  side-door  which  led  to  his  own 
rooms. 

Lionel  looked  round  for  Fairthorn,  who  now  emerged 
ab  angulo  —  from  his  nook. 

"  Oh,  Mr^  Fairthorn,  how  you  have  enchanted  me  I  I 
never  believed  th'i  flute  could  have  been  capable  of  such 
effects  ! " 

Mr.  Fairthorn 's  grotesque  face  lighted  up.  He  took 
ofl"  his  spectacles,  as  if  the  better  to  contemplate  the  face 
of  his  eulogist.  "  So  you  were  pleased  !  really  ? "  he 
said,  chuckling  a  strange,  grim  chuckle,  deep  in  his 
inmost  self. 

"  Pleased  !  it  is  a  cold  word  I  Who  would  not  be 
more  than  pleased  ?  " 

'*You  should  hear  me  in  the  open  air." 


140  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"Let  me  do  so  —  to-morrow." 

"  My  dear  young  Sir,  with  all  my  heart.  Hist  I " 
gazing  round  as  if  haunted  —  "I  like  you.  I  wish  him 
to  like  you.  Answer  all  his  questions  as  if  you  did  not 
care  how  he  turned  you  inside  out.  Never  ask  him  a 
question,  as  if  you  sought  to  know  what  he  did  not  him- 
self confide.  So  there  is  something,  you  think,  in  a  flute, 
after  all  ?     There  are  people  who  prefer  the  fiddle." 

"Then  they  never  heard  your  flute,  Mr.  Fairthorn." 
The  musician  again  emitted  his  discordant  chuckle,  and, 
nodding  his  head  nervously  and  cordially,  shambled  away 
without  lighting  a  candle,  and  was  ingulfed  in  the  shadows 
of  some  mysterious  corner. 


CHAPTER    lY. 

The  Old  World,  and  the  New.       / 

It  was  long  before  Lionel  could  sleep.  What  with  the 
strange  house,  and  the  strange  master  —  what  with  the 
magic  flute,  and  the  musician's  admonitory  caution  — 
what  with  tender  and  regretful  reminiscences  of  Sophy, 
his  brain  had  enough  to  work  on.  When  he  slept  at  last, 
his  slumber  was  deep  and  heavy,  and  he  did  not  wake  till 
gently  shaken  by  the  well-bred  arm  of  Mr.  Mills.  "  I 
humbly  beg  pardon  —  nine  o'clock,  Sir,  and  the  breakfast- 
bell  going  to  ring."  Lionel's  toilet  was  soon  hurried 
over ;  Mr.  Darrell  and  Fairthorn  were  talking  together 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  141 

as  be  entered  the  breakfast-room  —  the  same  room  as 
that  in  which  thej  had  dined. 

"  Good-morning,  Lionel,"  said  the  host.  "  No  leave- 
taking  to-day,  as  you  threatened.  I  find  you  have  made 
an  appointment  with  Mr.  Fairthora,  and  I  shall  place  you 
under  his  care.  You  may  like  to  look  over  the  old  house, 
and  make  yourself"  —  Darrell  paused  —  "At  home," 
jerked  out  Mr.  Fairthorn,  filling  up  the  hiatus.  Darrell 
turned  his  eye  toward  the  speaker,  who  evidently  became; 
much  frightened,  and,  after  looking  in  vain  for  a  corner, 
sidled  away  to  the  window,  and  poked  himself  behind  the 
curtain.  "  Mr.  Fairthorn,  in  the  capacity  of  ray  secretary, 
has  learned  to  find  me  thoughts,  and  put  them  in  his  own 
words,"  said  Darrell,  with  a  coldness  almost  icy.  He 
then  seated  himself  at  the  breakfast-table  ;  Lionel  followed 
his  example,  and  Mr.  Fairthorn,  courageously  emerging, 
also  took  a  chair  and  a  roll.  "  You  were  a  true  diviner, 
Mr.  Darrell,"  said  Lionel;   "it  is  a  glorious  day." 

"  But  there  will  be  showers  later.  The  fish  are  at  play 
on  the  surface  of  the  lake,"  Darrell  added,  with  a  softened 
glance  toward  Fairthorn,  who  was  looking  the  picture  of 
misery.  "After  twelve,  it  will  be  just  the  weather  for 
trout  to  rise  ;  and  if  you  fish,  Mr.  Fairthorn  will  lend  you 
a  rod.  He  is  a  worthy  successor  of  Izaak  Walton,  and 
(i>ves  a  companion  as  Izaak  did,  but  more  rarely  gets  one." 

"Are  there  trout  in  your  lake,  Sir  ?  " 

"  The  lake  1  You  must  not  dream  of  invading  that 
«acred  water.  The  inhabitants  of  rivulets  and  brooks  not 
within   my  boundary   are   beyond   the   pale   of  Fawley 


142  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

civilization,  to  be  snared  and  slaughtered  like  Caflfres, 
red  men,  or  any  other  savages,  for  whom  we  bait  with  a 
missionary,  and  whom  we  impale  on  a  bayonet.  But  I 
regard  my  lake  as  a  political  community,  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  law,  and  leave  its  denizens  to  devour  each 
other,  as  Europeans,  fishes  and  other  cold-blooded 
creatures  wisely  do,  in  order  to  check  the  overgrowth  of 
population.  To  fatten  one  pike  it  takes  a  great  many 
minnows.  Naturally  I  support  the  vested  rights  of  pike. 
I  have  been  a  lawyer." 

It  would  be  in  vain  to  describe  the  manner  in  which 
Mr.  Darrell  vented  this  or  similar  remarks  of  mocking 
irony,  or  sarcastic  spleen.  It  was  not  bitter  nor  sneer- 
ing, but  in  his  usual  mellifluous  level  tone  and  passionless 
tranquility. 

The  breakfast  was  just  over  as  a  groom  passed  in  fron  t 
of  the  windows  with  a  led  horse.  "  I  am  going  to  leave 
you,  Lionel,"  said  the  host,  "  to  make  —  friends  with  Mi. 
Fairthorn,  and  I  thus  complete  the  sentence  which  h^ 
diverted  astray,  according  to  my  own  original  intention.'' 
He  passed  across  the  hall  to  the  open  house-door,  and 
stood  by  the  horse  stroking  its  neck  and  giving  some 
directions  to  the  groom.  Lionel  and  Fairthorn  followed 
to  the  threshold,  and  the  beauty  of  the  horse  provoked 
the  boy's  admiration :  it  was  a  dark  muzzled  brown,  of 
that  fine  old-fashioned  breed  of  English  roadster  which 
is  now  so  seldom  seen  ;  showy,  bow-necked,  long-tailed, 
stumbling  reedy  hybrids,  born  of  bad  barbs,  ill-mated, 
having  mainly  supplied  their  place.     Thi8  was,  indeed,  a 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  143 

horse  of  great  power,  immense  girth  of  loin,  high  shoulder, 
broad  hoof;  and  such  a  head  I  the  ear,  the  frontal,  the 
nostril  I  you  seldom  see  a  human  physiogomy  half  so  in- 
telligent, half  so  expressive  of  that  high  spirit  and  sweet 
generous  temper,  which,  when  united,  constitute  the  ideal 
of  thorough-breed'ng,  whether  in  horse  or  man.  The 
English  rider  was  in  harmony  with  the  English  steed. 
Darrell  at  this  moment  was  resting  his  arm  lightly  on  the 
animal's 'shoulder,  and  his  head  still  uncovered.  It  has 
been  said  before  that  he  was  of  imposing  presence ;  the 
striking  attribute  of  his  person,  indeed,  was  that  of  uncon- 
scious grandeur  ;  yet,  though  above  the  ordinary  height, 
he  was  not  very  tall — five  feet  eleven  at  the  utmost — and 
far  from  being  very  erect.  On  the  contrary,  there  was  that 
habitual  bend  in  his  proud  neck  which  men  who  meditate 
much  and  live  alone  almost  invariably  contract.  But  there 
was,  to  use  an  expression  common  with  our  older  writers, 
that  "  great  air  "  about  him  which  filled  the  eye,  and  gave 
him  the  dignity  of  elevated  stature,  the  commanding  as- 
pect that  accompanies  the  upright  carriage.  His  figure 
was  inclined  to  be  slender  ;  though  broad  of  shouMer  and 
deep  of  chest ;  it  was  the  figure  of  a  young  man,  and 
probably  little  changed  from  what  it  might  have  been  at 
five-and-twenty.  A  certain  youthfulness  still  lingered  even 
on  the  countenance  —  strange,  for  sorrow  is  supposed  to 
expedite  the  work  of  age  ;  and  Darrell  had  known  sorrow 
of  a  kind  most  adapted  to  harrow  his  peculiar  nature,  as 
great  in  its  degree  as  ever  left  man's  heart  in  ruins.  No 
gray  was  visible  in  the  dark  brown  hair,  that,  worn  short 


144  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

behind,  still  retained  in  front  the  large  Jovelike  curl.  No 
wrinkle,  save  at  the  corner  of  the  eyes,  marred  the  pale 
bronze  of  the  firm  cheek ;  the  forehead  was  smooth  as 
marble,  and  as  massive.  It  was  that  forehead  which 
chiefly  contributed  to  the  superb  expression  of  his  whole 
aspect.  It  was  high  to  a  fault ;  the  perceptive  organs, 
over  a  dark,  strongly-marked,  arched  eyebrow,  powerfully 
developed,  as  they  are  with  most  eminent  lawyers  :  it  did 
not  want  for  breadth  at  the  temples ;  yet  on  the  Vhole,  it 
bespoke  more  of  intellectual  vigor  and  dauntless  will  than 
of  serene  philosophy  or  all-embracing  benevolence.  It 
was  the  forehead  of  a  man  formed  to  command  and  awe 
the  passions  and  intellect  of  others  by  the  strength  of  pas- 
sions in  himself,  rather  concentried  than  chastised,  and  an 
intellect  forceful  from  the  weight  of  its  mass  rather  than 
the  niceness  of  its  balance.  The  other  features  harmon- 
ized with  that  brow ;  they  were  of  the  noblest  order  of 
aquiline,  at  once  high  and  delicate.  The  lip  had  a  rare 
combination  of  exquisite  refinement  and  inflexible  resolve. 
The  eye,  in  repose,  was  cold,  bright,  unrevealing,  with  a 
certain  absent,  musing,  self-absorbing  expression,  that 
often  made  the  man's  words  appear  as  if  spoken  mechan- 
ically, and  assisted  toward  that  seeming  of  listless  indif- 
leience  to  those  whom  he  addressed,  by  which  he  wounded 
vanity,  without,  perhaps,  any  malice  prepense.  But  it  was 
an  eye  in  which  the  pupil  could  suddenly  expand,  the  hue 
change  from  gray  to  dark,  and  the  cold  still  brightness 
flash  into  vivid  fire.  It  could  not  have  occurred  to  any 
one,  even  to  the  most  commonplace  woman,  to  have  de- 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  145 

fccnbed  Darrell's  as  a  handsome  face ;  the  expression  would 
have  seemed  trivial  and  derogatory  ;  the  words  that  would 
have  occurred  to  all,  would  have  been  somewhat  to  this 
effect  —  "What  a  magnificent  countenance  I  What  a 
noble  head !  "  Yet  an  experienced  physiognomist  might 
have  noted  that  the  same  lineaments  which  bespoke  a  vir- 
tue bespoke  also  its  neighboring  vice ;  that  with  so  much 
will  there  went  stubborn  obstinacy ;  that  with  that  power 
of  grasp  there  would  be  the  tenacity  in  adherence  which 
narrows  in  astringing  the  intellect ;  that  a  prejudice  once 
conceived,  a  passion  once  cherished,  would  resist  all 
rational  argument  for  relinquishment.  When  men  of  this 
mould  do  relinquish  prejudice  or  passion,  it  is  by  their 
own  impulse,  their  own  sure  conviction  that  what  they 
hold  is  worthless  :  then  they  do  not  yield  it  graciously ; 
they  fling  it  from  them  in  scorn,  but  not  a  scorn  that  con- 
soles. That  which  they  thus  wrench  away  had  grown  a 
living  part  of  themselves ;  their  own  flesh  bleeds  —  the 
wound  seldom  or  never  heals.  Such  men  rarely  fail  in  the 
achievement  of  what  they  covet,  if  the  gods  are  neutral ; 
out  adamant  against  the  world,  they  are  vulnerable  through 
their  affections.  Their  love  is  intense,  but  undemonstra- 
tive ;  their  hatred  implacable,  but  unrevengeful.  Too 
proud  to  revenge,  too  galled  to  pardon. 

There  stood  Guy  Darrell,  to  whom  the  bar  had  destined 
its  highest  honors,  to  whoip  the  Senate  had  accorded  its 
most  rapturous  cheers  ;  and  the  more  you  gazed  on  him 
as  he  there  stood,  the  more  perplexed  became  the  enigma, 
bow  with    a  career  sought  with  such  energy,  advanced 

I. —  13  K 


146  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

with  such  success,  the  man  had  abruptly  subsided  into  a 
listless  recluse,  and  the  career  had  been  voluntarily  re- 
signed for  a  home  without  neighbors,  a  hearth  without 
children. 

"  I  had  no  idea,"  said  Lionel,  as  Darrell  rode  slowly 
away,  soon  lost  from  sight  amidst  the  thick  foliage  of 
summer  trees  —  "I  had  no  idea  that  my  cousin  was  so 
young  I " 

"  Oh,  yes  I "  said  Mr.  Fairthorn  ;  "  he  is  only  a  year 
older  than  I  am  I  " 

"  Older  than  you  ! "  exclaimed  Lionel,  staring  in  blunt 
amaze  at  the  elderly-looking  personage  beside  him ;  "yet 
true  —  he  told  me  so  himself." 

"And  I  am  fifty-one  last  birthday." 

"  Mr.  Darrell  fifty-two  !     Incredible  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  why  we  should  ever  grow  old,  the  life 
we  lead,"  observed  Mr.  Fairthorn,  re-adjusting  his  spec- 
tacles. "  Time  stands  so  still !  Fishing,  too,  is  very  con- 
ducive to  longevity.  If  you  will  follow  me  we  will  get 
the  rods  ;  and  the  flute  —  you  are  quite  sure  you  would 
like  the  flute  ?  Yes  !  thank  you,  my  dear  young  Sir.  And 
yet  there  are  folks  who  prefer  the  fiddle ! " 

"  Is  not  the  sun  a  little  too  bright  for  the  fly  at  present  ? 
and  will  you  not,  in  the  mean  while,  show  me  over  th« 
house  ?  " 

"  Yery  well ;  not  that  this  house  has  much  worth  seeing. 
The  other,  indeed,  would  have  had  a  music-room  1  But, 
after  all,  nothing  like  the  open  air  for  the  flute.   This  way." 

I  spare  thee,  gentle  reader,  the  miuutc  inveutery  of 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  li^ 

Fawley  Manor  House.  It  had  nothing  but  its  antiquity 
to  recommend  it.  It  had  a  great  many  rooms,  all,  except 
those  used  as  the  dining-room  and  library,  very  small  and 
very  low  —  itonumerable  ck>sets,  nooks  —  unexpected  cav- 
ities, as  if  made  on  purpose  for  the  venerable  game  of 
hide-and-seek.  Save  a  stately  old  kitchen,  the  offices  were 
sadly  defective,  even  for  Mr.  Darrell's  domestic  establish- 
ment, which  consisted  but  of  two  men  and  four  maids  (the 
stablemen  not  lodging  in  the  house).  Drawing-room, 
properly  speaking,  it  had  none.  At  some  remote  period 
a  sort  of  gallery  under  the  gable  roofs  (above  the  first 
floor),  stretching  from  end  to  end  of  the  house,  might  have 
served  for  the  reception  of  guests  on  grand  occasions.  For 
fragments  of  mouldering  tapestry  still,  here  and  there, 
clung  to  the  walls  ;  and  a  high  chimney-piece,  whereon, 
in  plaster  relief,  w^as  commemorated  the  memorable  fishing- 
party  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  retained  patches  of  color 
and  gilding,  which  must,  when  fresh,  have  made  the  Egypt- 
ian queen  still  more  appallingly  hideous,  and  tlie  fish  at 
the  end  of  Antony's  hook  still  less  resembling  any  creature 
known  to  ichthyologists. 

The  library  had  been  arranged  into  shelves  from  floor 
to  roof  by  Mr.  Darrell's  father,  and  subsequently,  for  the 
mere  purpose  of  holding  as  many  volumes  as  possible 
brought  out  into  projecting  wings  (college-like)  by  Dar 
rell  himself,  without  any  pretension  to  medioeval  character. 
With  this  room  communicated  a  small  reading-closet^ 
which  the  host  reserved  to  himself;  and  tliie,  by  a  circnlai 
^tair  cut  into  the  massive  wall,  ascended  first  into  Mr 


148  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Darrell's  sleeping-chamber,  and  thence  into  a  gable  recesa 
that  adjoined  the  gallery,  and  which  the  host  had  fitted 
up  for  the  purpose  of  scientific  experiments  in  chemistry, 
or  other  branches  of  practical  philosophy.  These  more 
private  rooms  Lionel  was  not  permitted  to  enter. 

Altogether  the  house  was  one  of  those  cruel  tenements 
which  it-  would  be  a  sin  to  pull  down  or  even  materially 
to  alter,  but  which  it  would  be  an  hourly  inconvenience 
for  a  modern  family  to  inhaljit.  It  was  out  of  all  cha- 
racter with  Mr.  Darrell's  former  position  in  life,  or  with 
the  fortune*  which  Lionel  vaguely  supposed  him  to  pos- 
sess, and  considerably  underrated.  Like  Sir  Nicholas 
Bacon,  the  man  had  grown  too  large  for  his  habitation. 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  said  Lionel,  as,  their  wanderings 
over,  he  and  Fairthorn  found  themselves  in  the  library, 
"that  Mr.  Darrell  began  to  build  a  new  house.  But  it 
would  have  been  a  great  pity  to  pull  down  this  for  it." 

"  Pull  down  this  !  Don't  hint  at  such  an  idea  to  Mr. 
Darrell.  lie  would  as  soon  have  pulled  down  the  British 
monarchy  !     Nay,  I  suspect,  sooner." 

*'  But  the  new  building  must  surely  have  swallowed  up 
the  old  one." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  Mr.  Darrell  had  a  plan  by  which  he  would 
have  inclosed  this  separately  in  a  kind  of  court  with  an 
open  screen  work  or  cloister  ;  and  it  was  his  intention  to 
appropriate  it  entirely  to  media)val  antiquities,  of  which 
he  had  a  wonderful  collection.  He  had  a  notion  of  illus- 
trating every  earlier  reign  in  which  his  ancestors  flour- 
ished—  different  apartments  in  correspondence  with  dif- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  i49 

ferent  dates.     It  would  have  been  a  chronicle  of  national 
manners." 

"But,  if  it  be  not  an  impertinent  question,  where  is 
this  collection?     In  London?" 

''  Hush  !  hush  !  I  will  give  you  a  peep  of  some  of  the 
treasures,  only  don't  betray  me." 

Fairthorn  here,  with  singular  rapidity,  considering  ihrit 
he  never  moved  in  a  straightforward  direction,  undulated 
into  the  open  air  in  front  of  the  house,  described  a  rhom- 
boid toward  a  side-buttress  in  the  new  building,  near  tc 
which  was  a  postern  door ;  unlocked  that  door  from  t 
key  in  his  pocket,  and,  motioning  Lionel  to  follow  him. 
entered  within  the  ribs  of  the  stony  skeleton.  Lionf^l 
followed  in  a  sort  of  supernatural  awe,  and  beheld,  with 
more  substantial  alarm,  Mr.  Fairthorn  winding  up  an  in- 
clined plank  which  he  embraced  with  both  arms,  and  by 
which  he  ultimately  ascended  to  a  timber  joist  in  what 
should  have  been  an  upper  floor,  only  flooring  theie  was 
none.  Perched  there,  Fairthorn  glared  down  on  Lionel 
through  his  spectacles.  "  Dangerous,"  he  said,  whisper- 
ingly  ;  "but  one  gets  used  to  every  thing  !  If  you  feel 
afraid,  don't  venture  !  " 

Lionel,  animated  by  that  doubt  of  nis  courage,  sprang 
up  the  plank,  balancing  himself,  school-boy  fashion,  with 
outstretched  arms,  and  gained  the  side  of  his  guide. 

"  Don't  touch  me,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Fairthorn,  shrinking, 

"or  we  shall  both  be  over.     Now  observe  and  imitate.'' 

Dropping   himself  then   carefully  and   gradually,  till  he 

cropped  on  the  timber  joist  as  if  it  were  a  velocipede,  hia 

13* 


15C  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

long  lea^s  dangling  down,  he  with  thigh  and  hand  impelled 
himself  onward  till  he  gained  the  ridge  of  a  wall,  on 
which  he  delivered  his  person,  and  wiped  his  spectacles. 

Lionel  was  not  long  before  he  stood  in  the  same  place. 
*'Here  we  are!'  said  Fairthorn. 

"I  don't  see  the  collection,"  answered  Lionel,  first 
peering  down  athwart  the  joists  upon  the  rugged  ground 
overspread  with  stones  and  rubbish,  then  glancing  up, 
through  similar  interstices  above,  to  the  gaunt  rafters. 

"  Here  are  some — most  precious,"  answered  Fairthorn, 
tapping  behind  him.  "  Walled  up,  except  where  these 
boards,  cased  in  iron,  are  nailed  across,  with  a  little  door 
just  big  enough  to  creep  through  ;  but  that  is  locked  — 
Chubb 's  lock,  and  Mr.  Darrell  keeps  the  key  !— treasures 
for  a  palace  I  No,  you  can't  peep  through  here  —  not  a 
chink  ;  but  come  on  a  little  further,— mind  your  footing." 

Skirting  the  wall,  and  still  on  the  perilous  ridge,  Fair- 
thorn crept  on,  formed  an  angle,  and,  stopping  short, 
clapped  his  eye  to  the  crevice  of  some  planks  nailed  rudely 
across  a  yawning  aperture.  Lionel  found  another  crevice 
for  himself,  and  saw,  piled  up  in  admired  disorder,  pic- 
tures, with  their  backs  turned  to  a  desolate  wall,  rare 
cabinets,  and  articles  of  curious  furniture,  chests,  boxes, 
crates  —  heaped  pell-mell.  This  receptacle  had  been 
roughly  floored  in  deal,  in  order  to  support  its  miscellane- 
ous contents,  and  was  lighted  from  a  large  window  (not 
visible  in  front  of  the  house),  glazed  in  dull  rough  glass, 
with  ventilators. 

"  These  are  the  heavy  things,  and  least  costly  things, 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  151 

that  no  one  could  well  rob.  The  pictures  here  are  merely 
curious  as  early  specimens,  intended  for  the  old  house,  all 
spoiling  and  rotting;  Mr.  Darrell  wishes  them  to  do  so, 
I  believe  !  What  he  wishes  must  be  done  I  my  dear 
young  Sir  —  a  prodigious  mind  —  it  is  of  granite." 

"  I  can  not  understand  it,"  said  Lionel,  aghast.  "  The 
last  man  I  should  have  thought  capriciously  whimsical." 

"  Whimsical !  Bless  my  soul  I  don't  say  such  a  word 
. — don't,  pray,  or  the  roof  will  fall  down  upon  us !  Come 
away.  You  have  seen  all  you  can  see.  You  must  go 
first  now  —  mind  that  loose  stone  there  I  " 

Nothing  further  was  said  till  they  were  out  of  the  build- 
ing ;  and  Lionel  felt  like  a  knight  of  old  who  had  been 
led  into  sepulchral  halls  by  a  wizard. 


CHAPTER   Y. 

The  annals  of  empire  are  briefly  chronicled  in  family  records 
brought  down  to  the  present  day,  showing  that  the  race  of  men 
is  indeed  "like  leaves  on  trees,  now  green  in  youth,  now  wither- 
ing on  the  ground."  Yet  to  the  branch  the  most  bare  will  green 
leaves  return,  so  long  as  the  sap  can  remount  to  the  branch 
from  the  root;  but  the  branch  which  has  ceased  to  take  life  from 
the  root  —  hang  it  high,  hang  it  low — is  a  prey  to  the  wind  and 
the  woodman. 

It  was  mid-day.  The  boy  and  his  new  friend  were  stand- 
iig  apart,  as' becomes  silent  anglers,  on  the  banks  of  a 
Pirrow  brawling  rivulet,  running  through  green  pastures, 


152  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

half  a  mile  from  the  house.  The  sky  was  overcast,  as 
Darrell  had  predicted,  but  the  rain  did  not  yet  fall.  The 
two  anglers  were  not  long  before  they  had  filled  a  basket 
with  small  trout. 

Then  Lionel,  who  was  by  no  means  fond  of  fishing,  laid 
his  rod  on  the  bank,  and  strolled  across  the  long  grass  to 
his  companion. 

"It  will  rain  soon,"  said  he.  "  Let  me  take  advantage 
of  the  present  time,  and  hear  the  flute,  while  we  can  yet 
enjoy  the  open  air.  No,  not  by  the  margin,  or  you  will 
be  always  looking  after  the  trout.  On  the  rising-ground, 
see  that  old  thorn-tree  — let  us  go  and  sit  under  it.  The 
new  building  looks  well  from  it.  What  a  pile  it  would 
have  been  !  I  may  not  ask  you,  I  suppose,  why  it  is  left 
incompleted.  Perhaps  it  would  have  cost  too  much,  or 
would  have  been  disproportionate  to  the  estate." 

"  To  the  present  estate  it  would  have  been  dispropor- 
tioned,  but  not  to  the  estate  Mr.  Darrell  intended  to  add 
to  it.  As  to  cost,  you  don'i  know  him.  He  would  never 
have  undertaken  what  he  could  not  afford  to  complete  ; 
and  what  he  once  undertook,  no  thoughts  of  the  cost 
would  have  scared  him  from  finishing.  Prodigious  mind 
— granite  I  And  so  rich  I "  added  Fairthorn,  with  an  air 
of  great  pride.  "  I  ought  to  know  ;  I  write  all  his  letters 
on  money  matters.  How  much  do  you  think  he  has,  with- 
out counting  land  ?  " 

"I  can  not  guess." 

"Nearly  half  a  million  —  in  two  years  it  will  be  more 
than  half  a  million.     And  he  had  not  three  hundred  i/ 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  153 

year  when  he  began  life ;   for  Fawley  was  sadly  mort' 
gaged." 

"  Is  it  possible  I  Could  any  lawyer  make  half  a  million 
at  the  bar?" 

"  If  any  man  could,  he  would,  if  he  set  his  mind  on  it. 
But  it  was  not  all  made  at  the  bar,  though  a  great  part 
of  it  was.  An  East  Indian  old  bachelor  of  the  same  name, 
but  who  ha,d  never  been  heard  of  hereabouts  till  he  wrote 
from  Calcutta  to  Mr.  Darrell  (inquiring  if  they  were  any 
relations  —  and  Mr.  Darrell  referred  him  to  the  College- 
at- Arms,  which  proved  that  they  came  from  the  same  stock 
ages  ago) — left  him  all  his  money.  Mr.  Darrell  was  not 
dependent  on  his  profession  when  he  stood  up  in  Parlia- 
ment. And  since  we  have  been  here,  such  savings  1  Not 
that  Mr.  Darrell  is  avaricious,  but  how  can  he  spend  money 
in  this  place  ?  You  should  have  seen  the  servants  we  kept 
in  Carlton  Gardens.  Such  a  cook  too  —  a  French  gen- 
tleman— looked  like  a  marquis.  Those  were  happy  days. 
and  proud  ones  !  It  is  true  that  I  order  the  dinner  here, 
but  it  can't  be  the  same  thing.  Do  you  like  fillet  of  veal  ? 
we  have  one  to-day." 

"  We  used  to  have  a  fillet  of  veal  at  school  on  Sundays. 
I  thought  it  good  then." 

"It  makes  a  nice  mince,"  said  Mr.  Fairthorn,  vitli  a 
sensual  movement  of  his  lips.  "  One  must  think  of  din- 
ner when  one  lives  in  the  country  —  so  little  else  to  think 
of !    Not  that  Mr.  Darrell  does,  but  then  he  is — granite  ! ' 

"  Still,"  said  Lionel,  smiling,  "  I  do  not  get  my  answer. 
Why  was  the  house  uncompleted  ?  and  why  did  Mr.  Darrell 
retire  from  public  life  ? " 


164  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"  He  took  both  into  his  head  ;  and  when  a  thing  ones 
gets  there,  it  is  no  use  asking  why.  But,"  added  Fair- 
thorn,  and  his  innocent  ugly  face  changed  into  an  expres- 
sion of  earnest  sadness  —  "  but  no  doubt  he  had  his  rea- 
sons. He  has  reasons  for  all  he  does,  only  they  lie  far 
far  away  from  what  appears  on  the  surface  —  far  as  that 
rivulet  lies  from  its  source  !  My  dear  young  Sir,  Mr. 
Darrell  has  known  griefs  on  which  it  does  not  become 
you  and  me  to  talk.  He  never  talks  of  them.  The  least 
I  can  do  for  my  benefactor  is  not  to  pry  into  his  secrets, 
nor  babble  them  out.  And  he  is  so  kind  —  so  good  — 
never  gets  into  a  passion  ;  but  it  is  so  awful  to  wound 
him — it  gives  him  such  pain  ;  that's  why  he  frightens  me 
—  frightens  me  horribly;  and  so  he  will  you  when  you 
come  to  know  him.  Prodigious  mind !  —  granite  —  over- 
grown with  sensitive  plants.  Yes,  a  little  music  will  do 
us  both  good." 

Mr.  Fairthorn  screwed  his  flute — an  exceedingly  hand- 
some one.  He  pointed  out  its  beauties  to  Lionel — a  pre- 
sent from  Mr.  Darrell  last  Christmas — and  then  he  began. 
Strange  thing,  Art !  especially  music.  Out  of  an  art  a 
man  may  be  so  trivial  you  would  mistake  him  for  an  im- 
be'3ile  —  at  best,  a  grown  infant.  Put  him  into  his  ait, 
and  how  high  he  soars  above  you  !  How  quietly  he  enteis 
into  a  heaven  of  which  he  has  become  a  denizen,  and, 
unlocking  the  gates  with  his  golden  key,  admits  you  to 
follow,  an  humble,  reverent  visitor. 

In  his  art  Fairthorn  was  certainly  a  master,  and  the  air 
he  now  played  was  exquisitely  soft  and  plaintive ;  it  ac« 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  155 

corded  with  the  clouded  yet  quiet  sky,  with  the  h)ne  but 
summer  landscape,  with  Lionel's  melancholic  but  not 
atflicted  train  of  thought.  The  boy  could  only  murmur, 
"Beautiful!"  when  the  musician  ceased. 

"  It  is  an  old  air,"  said  Fairthorn  ;  "  I  don't  think  it  is 
known.  I  found  its  scale  scrawled  down  in  a  copy  of  the 
Eikon  Basilike,  with  the  name  of  Joannes  Dan^ell,  Eq. 
Aurat,  written  under  it.  That,  by  the  date,  was  Sir  John 
Darrell,  the  cavalier  who  fought  for  Charles  I.,  father  of 
the  graceless  Sir  Ralph,  who  flourislied  under  Charles  11. 
Both  their  portraits  are  in  the  dining-room." 

"  Tell  me  something  of  the  family ;  I  know  so  little 
about  it — not  even  how  the  Haughtons  and  Darrells  seem 
to  have  been  so  long  connected.  I  see  by  the  portraits 
that  the  Haughton  name  was  borne  by  former  Darrells, 
then  apparently  dropped,  now  it  is  borne  again  by  my 
cousin." 

"  He  bears  it  only  as  a  Christian  name.  Your  grand- 
father was  his  sponsor.  But  he  is,  nevertheless,  the  head 
of  your  family." 

"  So  he  says.     How  ?" 

Fail. horn  gathered  himself  up,  his  knees  to  his  chin, 
and  began  in  the  tone  of  a  guide  who  has  got  his  lesson 
by  heart,  though  it  was  not  long  before  he  warmed  into 
his  subject. 

"  The  Darrells  are  supposed  to  have  got  their  name 
from  a  knight  in  the  reign  of  Edward  III.,  who  held  the 
lists  in  a  joust  victoriously  against  all  comers,  and  was 
tailed,  or  called  himself,  John  the  Dare-all ;  or,  in  old 


156 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 


spelling,  the  Der-all !  They  were  among  the  most  powerful 
families  in  the  country  ;  their  alliances  were  with  the  highest 
houses  —  Montfichets,  Nevilles,  Mowbrays  ;  they  descend 
through  such  marriages  from  the  blood  of  Plantagenet 
kings,     You'll  find  their  names  in  Chronicles  in  the  early 
French  wars.     Unluckily,  they  attached  themselves  t  J  the 
fortunes   of  Earl  Warwick,  the  King-maker,  to    whose 
blood  they  were  allied  ;  their  representative  was  killed  in 
the  fatal  field   of  Barnet ;  their   estates  were,  of  course, 
confiscated  ;  the  sole  son  and  heir  of  that  ill-fated  politi- 
cian passed  into  the  Low  Countries,  where  he  served  as 
a  soldier.     His  son  and  grandson  followed  the  same  call- 
ing under  foreign  banners.     But  they  must  have  kept  up 
the  love  of  the  old  land ;  for,  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
reign  of  Henry  YIII.,  the  last  male  Darrell  returned  to 
England  with  some  broad  gold  pieces,  saved  by  himself 
or  his  exiled  fathers,  bought  some  land  in  this  country, 
in  which  the  ancestral  possessions  had  once  been  large, 
and  built  the  present  house,  of  a  size  suited  to  the  altered 
fortunes  of  a  race  that  had,  in   a  former  age,  manned 
castles  with  retainers.     The  baptismal  name  of  the  soldier 
who  thus  partially  refounded  the  old  line  in  England  was 
that  now  borne  by  your  cousin   Guy  —  a  name  always 
favored  by  Fortune  in  the  family  annals ;  for,  in  Eliza- 
beth's time,  from  the  rank  of  small  gentry,  to  which  their 
fortune  alone  lifted  them  since  their  return  to  their  native 
land,  the  Darrells  rose  once  more  into  wealth  and  emi- 
nence under  a  handsome  young  Sir  Guy  —  we  have  his 
picture  in  black  flowered  velvet — who  married  the  heiress 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  15*1 

of  the  Ilaugbtons,  a  family  that  had  grown  rich  under  the 
Tudors,  and  in  high  favor  with  the  Maiden-Queen.  This 
Sir  Guy  was  befriended  by  Essex,  and  knighted  by 
Elizabeth  herself.  Their  old  house  was  then  abandoned 
for  the  larger  mansion  of  the  Haughtons,  which  had  also 
the  advantage  of  being  nearer  to  the  Court.  The  re- 
newed prosperity  of  the  Darrells  was  of  short  duration. 
The  Cival  Wars  came  on,  and  Sir  John  Darrell  took  the 
losing  side.  He  escaped  to  France  with  his  only  son. 
He  is  said  to  have  been  an  accomplished,  melancholy 
man  ;  and  my  belief  is,  that  he  composed  that  air  which 
you  justly  admire  for  its  mournful  sweetness.  He  turned 
Roman  Catholic,  and  died  in  a  convent.  But  the  son, 
Ralphs  was  brought  up  in  France  with  Charles  II.  and 
other  gay  roisterers.  On  the  return  of  the  Stuart,  Ralph 
ran  off  with  the  daughter  of  the  Roundhead  to  whom  jiis 
estates  had  been  given,  and,  after  getting  them  back,  left 
nis  wife  in  the  country,  and  made  love  to  other  men's 
wives  in  town.  Shocking  profligate !  no  fruit  could 
thrive  upon  such  a  branch.  He  squandered  all  he  could 
squander,  and  would  have  left  his  children  beggars,  but 
ihat  he  was  providentially  slain  in  a  tavern  brawl  for 
boasting  of  a  lady's  favors  to  her  husband's  face.  The 
husband  suddenly  stabbed  him  —  no  fair  duello,  for  Sir 
Ralph  was  invincible  with  the  small  sword.  Still  the 
family  fortune  was  much  dilapidated,  yet  still  the  Darrells 
lived  in  the  fine  house  of  the  Ilauglitons,  and  left  Fawley 
to  the  owls.  But  Sir  Ralph's  son,  in  his  old  age,  mar- 
ried a  second*time,  a  young  lady  of  high  rank,  an  earl'g 
L  — 14 


158  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

daughter.  He  must  have  been  very  much  in  love  with 
her,  despite  his  age ;  for,  to  win  her  consent  or  her 
father's,  he  agreed  to  settle  all  the  Haughton  estates  on 
her  and  the  children  she  might  bear  to  him.  The  smaller 
Darrell  property  had  already  been  entailed  on  his  son  by 
his  first  marriage.  This  is  how  the  family  came  to  split. 
Old  Darrell  had  children  by  his  second  wife ;  the  eldest 
of  those  children  took  the  Haughton  name,  and  inherited 
the  Haughton  property.  The  son  by  the  first  marriage 
had  nothing  but  Fawley,  and  the  scanty  domain  round  it. 
You  descend  from  the  second  marriage,  Mr.  Darrell  from 
the  first.     You  understand  now,  my  dear  young  Sir  .'' " 

"  Yes,  a  little ;  but  I  should  like  very  much  to  know 
where  those  fine  Haughton  estates  are  now  ?  " 

"  Where  they  are  now  ?  I  can't  say.  They  were  once 
in  Middlesex.  Probably  much  of  the  land,  as  it  was  sold 
piecemeal,  fell  into  small  allotments,  constantly  changing 
hands.  But  the  last  relics  of  the  property  were,  I  know, 
bought  on  speculation  by  Cox  the  distiller ;  for,  when  we 
were  in  London,  by  Mr.  Darrell's  desire  I  went  to  look 
after  them,  and  inquire  if  they  could  be  repurchased 
And  I  found  that  so  rapid  in  a  few  years  has  been  the 
prosperity  of  this  great  commercial  country,  that  if  one 
did  buy  them  back,  one  would  buy  twelve  villas,  several 
streets,  two  squares,  and  a  paragon  !  But  as  that  symp- 
tom of  national  advancement,  though  a  proud  thought  in 
itself,  may  not  have  any  pleasing  interest  for  you,  I  return 
to  the  Darrells.  From  the  time  in  which  the  Haughton 
estate  had  parted  from  them,  they  settled  «back  in  their 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  15& 

old  bouse  of  Fawley.  I^nt  they  could  never  again  hold 
up  their  heads  ^Yith  the  noblemen  and  great  squires  in 
the  country.  As  much  as  they  could  do  to  live  at  all 
upon  the  little  patrimony  ;  still  the  reminiscence  of  what 
they  had  been  made  them  maintain  it  jealously,  and  entail 
it  rigidly.  The  eldest  son  would  never  have  thought  of 
any  profession  or  business  ;  the  younger  sons  generally 
became  soldiers,  and  being  always  a  venturesome  race, 
and  having  nothing  particular  to  make  them  value  their 
existence,  were  no  less  generally  killed  off  betimes.  The 
family  became  thoroughly  obscure,  slipped  out  of  place 
in  the  country,  seldom  rose  to  be  even  justices  of  the 
peace,  never  contrived  to  marry  heiresses  again,  but  only 
the  daughters  of  some  neighboring  parson  or  Squire  as 
poor  as  themselves,  but  always  of  gentle  blood.  Oh 
they  were  as  proud  as  Spaniards  in  that  respect.  So 
from  father  to  son,  each  generation  grew  obscurer  and 
poorer ;  for,  entail  the  estate  as  they  might,  still  some 
settlements  on  it  were  necessary,  and  no  settlements  were 
ever  brought  into  it ;  and  thus  entails  were  cut  off  to  ad- 
mit some  new  mortgage,  till  the  rent-roll  was  somewhat 
less  than  £300  a  year  when  Mr.  DarrelPs  father  came  into 
possession.  Yet  somehow  or  other  he  got  to  college, 
where  no  Darrell  had  been  since  the  time  of  the  Glorious 
Revolution,  and  was  a  learned  man  and  an  antiquary  — 
A  GREAT  ANTIQUARY  1  You  may  havB  read  his  works, 
I  know  there  is  one  copy  of  them  in  the  British  Museunx, 
and  there  is  another  here,  but  that  copy  Mr.  Darrell  keeps 
under  lock  and  kev.'' 


160  "WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  don't  even  know  the  title  of 
those  works." 

"  There  were  '  Popular  Ballads  on  the  Wars  of  the 
Roses  ;  *  '  Darrelliana,'  consisting  of  traditional  and  other 
memorials  of  the  Darrell  family  ;  '  Inquiry  into  the  Origin 
of  Legends  connected  with  Dragons;'  'Hours  among 
Monumental  Brasses,'  and  other  ingenious  lucubrations 
above  the  taste  of  the  vulgar ;  some  of  them  were  even 
read  at  the  Royal  Society  of  Antiquaries.  They  cost 
much  to  print  and  publish.  But  I  have  heard  my  father, 
who  was  his  bailiff,  say  that  he  was  a  pleasant  man,  and 
was  fond  of  reciting  old  scraps  of  poetry,  which  he  did 
with  great  energy  ;  indeed,  Mr.  Darrell  declares  that  it 
was  the  noticing,  in  his  father's  animated  and  felicitous 
elocution,  the  effects  that  voice,  look,  and  delivery  can 
give  to  words,  which  made  Mr.  Darrell  himself  the  fine 
speaker  that  he  is.  But  I  can  only  recollect  the  Anti- 
quary as  a  very  majestic  gentleman,  with  a  long  pigtail 

—  awful,  rather,  not  so  much  so  as  his  son,  but  still  awful 

—  and  so  sad-looking;  you  would  not  have  recovered 
your  spirits  for  a  week  if  you  had  seen  him,  especially 
when  the  old  house  wanted  repairs,  and  he  was  thinking 
how  he  could  pay  for  them  ! " 

"  Was  Mr.  Darrell,  the  present  one,  an  only  child  ? " 
"Yes,  and  much  with  his  father^  whom  he  loved  most 
dearly,  and  to  this  day  he  sighs  if  he  has  to  mention  his 
father's  name  !  He  has  old  Mr.  Darrell's  portrait  over 
the  chimney-piece  in  his  own  reading-room  ;  and  he  had 
it  in  his  own  library  in  Carlton  Gardens.     Our  Mr.  Dar- 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  161 

fell's  raotlier  was  very  pretty,  even  as  I  remember  her  ; 
she  died  when  he  was  about  ten  years  old.  And  she  too 
was  a  relation  of  yours  —  a  Haughton  by  blood ;  but 
perhaps  you  will  be  ashamed  of  her,  when  I  say  she  was 
a  governess  in  a  rich  mercantile  family.  She  had  been 
loft  an  orphan.  I  believe  old  Mr.  Darrell  (not  that  he 
v\  as  old  then)  married  her  because  the  Haughtons  could 
or  would  do  nothing  for  her,  and  because  she  was  much 
snubbed  and  put  upon,  as  I  am  told  governesses  usually 
are  —  married  her  because,  poor  as  he  was,  he  was  still 
the  head  of  both  families,  and  bound  to  do  what  he  could 
for  decayed  scions  I  The  first  governess  a  Da>rrell  ever 
married,  but  no  true  Darrell  would  have  called  that  a 
mesalliance,  since  she  was  still  a  Haughton,  and  *  Fors 
non  mutat  genus,'  Chance  does  not  change  race." 

"But  how  comes  it  that  the  Haughtons  —  my  grand- 
father Haughton,  I  suppose,  would  do  nothing  for  his 
own  kinswoman  ?  " 

"  It  was  not  your  grandfather,  Robert  Haughton,  who 
was  a  generous  man  —  he  was  then  a  mere  youngster, 
hiding  himself  for  debt — but  your  great-grandfather,  who 
was  a  hard  man,  and  on  the  turf.  He  never  had  money 
to  give  —  only  money  for  betting.  He  left  the  Haughton 
estates  sadly  dipped.  But  when  Robert  succeeded,  he 
came  forward,  was  godfather  to  our  Mr.  Darrell,  insisted 
on  sharing  the  expense  of  sending  him  to  Eton,  where  he 
became  greatly  distinguished  ;  thence  to  Oxford,  where  he 
Increased  his  "reputation  ;  and  would  probably  have  done 
U*  L 


162  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

more  for  liim,   ouly   Mr.  Darrell,   once  his  foot  on  the 
ladder,  wanted  no  help  to  climb  to  the  top." 

"  Then  my  grandfather,  Kobert,  still  had  the  Haughtou 
estates  ?  Their  last  relics  had  not  yet  been  transmuted 
by  Mr.  Cox  into  squares  and  a  paragon  ?  " 

"  No  :  the  grand  old  mansion,  though  much  dilapidated, 
with  its  park,  though  stripped  of  saleable  timber,  was 
still  left,  with  a  rental  from  farms  that  still  appertained  to 
the  residence,  which  would  have  sufficed  a  prudent  man 
for  the  luxuries  of  life,  and  allowed  a  reserve  fund  to  clear 
off  the  mortgages  gradually.     Abstinence  and  self-denial 
for  one  or  two  generations  would  have  made  a  property, 
daily  rising  in  value  as  the  metropolis  advanced  to  its 
outskirts,   a  princely  estate   for   a  third.     But  Robert 
Haughton,  though  not  on  the  turf,  had  a  grand  way  of 
living  ;  and  while  Guy  Darrell  went  into  the  law  to  make 
a  small  patrimony  a  large  fortune,  your  father,  my  dear 
young  Sir,  w^as  put  into  the  Guards  to  reduce  a  large 
patrimony  —  into  Mr.  Cox's  distillery." 
Lionel  colored,  but  remained  silent. 
Fairthorn,  who  was  as  unconscious,  in  his  zest  of  nar- 
rator, that  he  was  giving  pain,  as  an  entomologist,  in  his 
zest  for  collecting,  when  he  pins  a  live  moth  into  his  cabinet, 
resumed:    "Your  father  and   Guy   Darrell  were   warm 
friends  as  boys  and  youths.     Guy  was  the  elder  of  the 
two,  and  Charlie  Haughton  (I  beg  your  pardon,  he  was 
always  called  Charlie)  looked  up  to  him  as  to  an  elder 
brother.     Many's  the  scrape  Guy  got  him  out  of;   and 
many  a  pound,  I  believe,  when  Guy  had  some  funds  of 
bis  own,  did  Guy  lend  to  Charlie." 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH     IT?  163 

"  I  vjo.  very  sorry  to  hear  that,"  said  Lionel,  sharply. 

Fai.'tborn  looked  frightened.  "  I'm  afraid  I  have  made 
a  blunder.     Don't 'tell  Mr.  Darrell." 

"  Certainly  not ;  I  promise.  But  how  came  my  father 
tc  need  this  aid,  and  how  came  they  at  last  to  quarrel  ?  " 

"Your  father,  Charlie,  became  a  gay  young-  man  about 
town,  and  very  much  the  fashion.  He  was  like  you  in 
person,  only  his  forehead  was  lower  and  his  eye  not  so 
steady.  Mr.  Darrell  studied  the  law  in  Chambers.  When 
Robert  Haughton  died,  what  with  his  debts,  what  with 
bis  father's,  and  what  with  Charlie's  post-obits  and 
I  0  U's,  there  seemed  small  chance  indeed  of  saving  the 
estate  to  the  Haughtons.  But  then  Mr.  Darrell  looked 
close  into  matters,  and  with  such  skill  did  he  settle  them, 
that  he  removed  the  fear  of  foreclosure  ;  and  what  with 
increasing  the  rental  here  and  there,  and  replacing  old 
mortgages  by  new  at  less  interest,  he  contrived  to  extract 
from  the  property  an  income  of  nine  hundred  pounds  a 
year  to  Charlie  (three  times  the  income  Darrell  had  in- 
herited himself),  where  before  it  had  seemed  that  the  debts 
were  more  than  the  assets.  Foreseeing  how  much  the 
land  would  rise  in  value,  he  then  earnestly  implored 
Charlie  (who  unluckily  had  the  estate  in  fee-simple,  aa 
Mr.  Darrell  has  this,  to  sell  if  he  pleased),  to  live  on  his 
income,  and  in  a  few  years  a  part  of  the  property  might 
1ft  sold  for  building  purposes,  on  terms  that  would  save 
all  the  rest,  with  the  old  house  in  which  Darrells  and 
Haughtons  both  had  once  reared  generations.  Charlie 
promised,  I  know,  and  I've  no  doubt,  my  dear  young  Sir, 


164  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

quite  sincerely  —  but  all  men  are  not  granite  !  He  took 
to  gambling,  incurred  debts  of  honor,  sold  tlie  farms  one 
by  one,  resorted  to  usurers,  and  one  night,  after  playing 
six  hours  at  picquet,  nothing  was  left  for  him  but  to  sell 
all  that  remained  to  Mr.  Cox  the  distiller,  unknown  to 
Mr.  Darrell,  who  was  then  married  himself,  working  hard, 
and  living  quite  out  of  the  news  of  the  fashionable  world. 
Then  Charlie  Haughton  sold  out  of  the  Guards,  spent 
what  he  got  for  his  commission,  went  into  the  line  ;  and 
finally,  in  a  country  town,  in  which  I  don't  think  he  was 
quartered,  but  having  gone  there  on  some  sporting  specu- 
lation, was  unwillingly  detained  —  married — " 

"  My  mother  !  "  said  Lionel,  haughtily  ;  "  and  the  best 
of  womeji  she  is.     What  then  ?  " 

'Nothing,  my  dear  young  Sir  —  nothing,  except  that 
Mr.  Darrell  never  forgave  it.  He  has  his  prejudices  ;  this 
marriage  shocked  one  of  them." 

"  Prejudice  against  my  poor  mother  I  I  always  sup- 
posed so  I  I  wonder  why  ?  The  most  simple-hearted, 
inoffensive,  affectionate  woman." 

"  I  have  not  a  doubt  of  it ;  but  it  is  beginning  to  rain. 
Let  us  go  home.  I  should  like  some  luncheon  ;  it  brefiks 
the  day." 

"  Tell  me  first  why  Mr.  Darrell  has  a  prejudice  against 
ray  mother.  I  don't  think  that  he  has  even  seen  her 
Unaccountable  caprice  !  Shocked  him,  too  —  what  a 
word!     Tell  me  —  I  beg  —  I  insist." 

"But  you  know,"  said  Fairthorn,  half  piteously,  half 
snappishly,  "  that  Mrs.  Haughton  was  the  daughter  of  a 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  165 

linen-draper,  and  her  father's  money  got  Charlie  out  of 
the  county  jail;  and  Mr.  Darrell  said:  'Sold  even  your 
name  I  "  My  father  heard  him  say  it  in  the  hall  at  Fawley. 
Mr.  Darrell  was  there  during  a  long  vacation,  and  your 
father  came  to  see  him.  Your  father  fired  up,  and  they 
never  saw  each  other,  I  believe,  again." 

Lionel  remained  still  as  if  thunder-stricken.  Some- 
thing in  his  mother's  language  and  manner  had  at  times 
made  him  suspect  that  she  was  not  so  well  born  as  his 
father.  But  it  was  not  the  discovery  that  she  was  a 
tradesman's  daughter  that  galled  him  ;  it  was  the  thought 
that  his  father  was  bought  for  the  altar  out  of  the  county 
jail !  It  was  those  cutting  words,  "  Sold  even  your 
name  ! "  His  face,  before  very  crimson,  became  livid ; 
his  head  sunk  on  his  breast.  He  walked  toward  the  old 
gloomy  house  by  Fairthorn's  side,  as  one  who,  for  the 
first  time  in  life,  feels  on  his  heart  the  leaden  weight  of 
an  hereditary  shame. 


CHAPTER   YI. 

Showing  how  sinful  it  is  in  a  man  who  does  not  care  for  his  honor 
to  beget  children. 

When  Lionel  saw  Mr.  Fairthorn  devoting  his  intel- 
lectual being  to  the  contents  of  a  cold  chicken-pie,  he 
silently  stepped  out  of  the  room,  and  slunk  away  into  a 
thick  copse  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  paddock.  He 
longed  to  be  alone.    The  rain  descended,  not  heavily,  but 


16(5  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

in  penetradng  drizzle :  lie  did  not  feel  it,  or  rather,  lie 
felt  glad  that  there  was  no  gaudy,  mocking  sunlight. 
He  sate  down  forlorn  in  the  hollows  of  a  glen  which  the 
copse  covered,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  clasped  hands. 

Lionel  Haughton,  as  the  reader  may  have  noticed,  was 
no  premature  man  —  a  manly  boy,  but  still  a  habitant 
of  the  twilight,  dreamy  shadow-land  of  boyhood.  Noble 
elements  were  stirring  fitfully  within  him,  but  their  agencies 
were  crude  and  undeveloped.  Sometimes,  through  the 
native  acuteness  of  his  intellect,  he  apprehended  truths 
quickly  and  truly  as  a  man  ;  then,  again,  through  the 
warm  haze  of  undisciplined  tenderness,  or  the  raw  mists 
of  that  sensitive  pride  in  which  objects,  small  in  them- 
selves, loom  large  with  undetected  outlines,  he  fell  back 
into  the  passionate  dimness  of  a  child's  reasoniDg,  He 
was  intensely  ambitious  ;  Quixotic  in  the  point  of  honor  ; 
dauntless  in  peril;  but  morbidly  trembling  at  the  very 
shadow  of  disgrace,  as  a  foal,  destined  to  be  the  war- 
horse  and  trample  down  leveled  steel,  starts  in  its  tranquil 
pastures  at  the  rustling  of  a  leaf.  Glowingly  romantic, 
but  not  inclined  to  vent  romance  in  literary  creations,  his 
feelings  were  the  more  high-wrought  and  enthusiastic 
because  they  had  no  outlet  in  poetic  channels.  Most  boys 
of  great  ability  and  strong  passion  write  verses  —  it  is 
nature's  relief  to  brain  and  heart  at  the  critical  turning- 
age.  Most  boys  thus  gifted  do  so ;  a  few  do  not,  and  out 
of  those  few  Fate  selects  the  great  men  of  action  —  those 
large,  luminous  characters  that  stamp  poetry  on  the  world's 
prosaic  surface.    Lionel  had  in  him  the  pith  and  substance 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH     IT?  167 

of  Fortune's  grand  nobodies,  who  become  Fame's  abrupt 
somebodies  when  the  chances  of  life  throw  suddenly  in 
their  way  a  noble  something,  to  be  ardently  coveted  and 
boldly  won.  But,  I  repeat,  as  yet  he  was  a  boy  —  so  he 
sate  there,  his  hands  before  his  face,  an  unreasoning  self- 
torturer.  He  knew  now  why  this  haughty  Darrell  had 
written  with  so  little  tenderness  and  respect  to  his  beloved 
mother.  Darrell  looked  on  her  as  the  cause  of  his  ignoble 
kinsman's  "  sale  of  name  ;  "  nay,  most  probably  ascribed 
to  her,  not  the  fond,  girlish  love,  which  levels  all  dispari- 
ties of  rank,  but  the  vulgar,  cold-blooded  design  to  ex- 
change her  father's  bank-notes  for  a  marriage  beyond  her 
station.  And  he  was  the  debtor  to  this  supercilious 
creditor,  as  his  father  had  been  before  him  !  His  father  I 
—  till  then  he  had  been  so  proud  of  that  relationship. 
Mrs.  Haughton  had  not  been  happy  with  her  captain ; 
his  confirmed  habits  of  wild  dissipation  had  embittered 
her  union,  and  at  last  worn  away  her  wifely  affections. 
But  she  had  tended  and  nursed  him,  in  his  last  illness,  as 
the  lover  of  her  youth  ;  and  though  occasionally  she 
hinted  at  his  faults,  she  ever  spoke  of  him  as  the  orna- 
ment of  all  society  ;  poor,  it  is  true,  harassed  by  unfeeling 
creditors,  but  the  finest  of  fine  gentlemen.  Lionel  had 
never  heard  from  her  of  the  ancestral  estates  sold  for  a 
gambling  debt ;  never  from  her  of  the  county  jail  nor  t:ie 
mercenary  mesalliance.  In  boyhood,  before  we  have  any 
cause  to  be  proud  of  ourselves,  we  are  so  proud  of  our 
fathers,  if  we  have  a  decent  excuse  for  it.  Of  his  father 
could  Lionel  Haughton  ))c  proud  now?  And  Darrell 
was  cugnizant  of  his  paternal  disgrace,  had  taunted  Lis 


168  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

father  in  yonder  old  hall  —  for  what?  —  the  marriage 
from  which  Lionel  sprung  ?  The  hands  grew  tighter  and 
tighter  before  that  burning  face.  He  did  not  weep,  as 
he  had  done  in  Vance's  presence  at  a  thought  much  less 
galling.  Kot  that  tears  would  have  misbecome  him. 
Shallow  judges  of  human  nature  are  they  who  think  that 
tears  in  themselves  ever  misbecome  boy  or  even  man. 
Well  did  the  sternest  of  Roman  writers  place  the  arch 
distinction  of  humanity,  aloft  from  all  meaner  of  heaven's 
creatures,  in  the  prerogative  of  tears  !  Sooner  mayest 
thou  trust  thy  purse  to  a  professonal  pickpocket  than  give 
loyal  friendship  to  the  man  who  boasts  of  eyes  to  which 
the  heart  never  mounts  in  dew  !  Only,  when  man  weeps, 
he  should  be  alone  —  not  because  tears  are  weak,  but 
because  they  should  be  sacred.  Tears  are  akin  to  prayers. 
Pharisees  parade  prayer ;  impostors  parade  tears.  0 
Pegasus,  Pegasus  —  softly,  softly  I  —  thou  hast  hurried 
me  off  amidst  the  clouds  :  drop  me  gently  down  —  there, 
by  the  side  of  the  motionless  boy  in  the  shadowy  glen. 


CHAPTER   YII. 

Lionel  Haughton,  having  hitherto  much  improved  his  chance  tf 
fortune,  decides  the  question,  -'What  will  he  do  with  it?" 

''  1  HAVE  been  seeking  you  every  where,"  said  a  well- 
known  voice ;  and  a  hand  rested  lightly  on  Lionel's 
shoulder.  The  boy  looked  up,  startled,  but  yet  heavily, 
and  saw  Guy  Darrell,  the  last  man  on  earth  he  could  have 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  169 

desired  to  see.  "  Will  you  come  in  for  a  few  minutes  ? 
you  are  wanted." 

"  What  for  ?  I  would  rather  stay  here.  Who  can  want 
me?" 

Darrell,  struck  by  the  words,  and  the  sullen  tone  in 
which  they  were  uttered,  surveyed  Lionel's  face  for  an 
instant,  and  replied  in  a  voice  involuntarily  more  kind 
than  usual  — 

"Some  one  very  commonplace,  but,  since  the  Picts 
went  out  of  fashion,  very  necessary  to  mortals  the  most 
sublime.  I  ought  to  apologize  for  his  coming.  You 
threatened  to  leave  me  yesterday  because  of  a  defect  in 
your  wardrobe.  Mr.  Fairthorn  wrote  to  my  tailor  to 
hasten  hither  and  repair  it.  He  is  here.  I  commend 
him  to  your  custom  1  Don't  despise  him  because  he  makes 
for  a  man  of  my  remote  generation.  Tailors  are  keen 
observers,  and  do  not  grow  out  of  date  so  quickly  as 
politicians." 

The  words  were  said  with  a  playful  good-humor  very 
uncommon  to  Mr.  Darrell.  The  intention  was  obviously 
kind  and  kinsmanlike.  Lionel  sprang  to  his  feet ;  his 
lip  curled,  his  eye  flashed,  and  his  crest  rose. 

"  No,  Sir ;  I  will  not  stoop  to  this  1  I  will  not  be 
clothed  by  your  charity — yours  I  I  will  not  submit  to  an 
implied  taunt  upon  my  poor  mother's  ignorance  of  the 
manners  of  a  rank  to  which  she  was  not  born  I  You  said 
we  might  not  like  each  other,  and  if  so,  we  should  part 
forever.  I  do  not  like  you,  and  I  will  go  ! "  He  turned 
abruptly,  and  walked  to  the  house  —  magnanimous      If 

1—15 


170  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Mr.  Darrell  had  not  been  the  most  singular  of  men  he 
might  well  have  been  offended.  As  it  was,  though  none 
less  accessible  to  surprise,  he  was  surprised.  But  offended  ? 
Judge  for  yourself.  "  I  declare,"  muttered  Guy  Darrell, 
gazing  on  the  boy's  receding  figure  —  "I  declare  that  I 
almost  feel  as  if  I  could  once  again  be  capable  of  an 
emotion  I  I  hope  I  am  not  going  to  like  that  boy  !  The 
old  Darrell  blood  in  his  veins,  surely.  I  might  have 
spoken  as  he  did  at  his  age,  but  I  must  have  had  some 
better  reason  for  it.  What  did  I  say  to  justify  such  an 
explosion  !  Quid  feci?  —  ubi  laj^sus  ?  Gone,  no  doubt, 
to  pack  up  his  knapsack,  and  take  the  Road  to  Ruin  ! 
Shall  I  let  him  go  ?  Better  for  me,  if  I  am  really  in  danger 
of  liking  him  ;  and  so  be  at  his  mercy  to  sting  —  what  ? 
my  heart?  I  defy  him  :  it  is  dead.  Xo  ;  he  shall  not 
go  thus.  I  am  the  head  of  our  joint  houses.  Houses  ! 
I  wish  he  liad  a  house,  poor  boy  !  And  his  grandfather 
loved  me.  Let  him  go  !  I  will  beg  his  pardon  first ;  and 
he  may  dine  in  his  drawers  if  that  will  settle  the  matter  !" 
Thus,  no  less  magnanimous  than  Lionel,  did  this  mis- 
anthropical man  follow  his  ungracious  cousin.  "  Ha  !  " 
cried  Darrell,  suddenly,  as,  approaching  the  threshold,  he 
saw  Mr.  Fairthorn  at  the  dining-room  window  occupied 
in  nibbing  a  pen  upon  an  ivory  thumb-stall — "  I  have  hit 
it !  That  abominable  Fairthorn  has  been  shedding  its 
prickles  !  How  could  I  trust  flesh  and  blood  to  such  a 
bramble  ?  I'll  know  what  it  was,  this  instant  ! "  Yain 
Menace  I  No  sooner  did  Mr.  Fairthorn  catch  glimpse  of 
Darrell's  countenance  within  ten  yards  of  the  porch  than, 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  171 

his  conscience  taking  alarm,  he  rushed  incontinent  from 
the  window — the  apartment — and  ere  Darrell  could  fling 
open  the  door,  was  lost  in  some  lair — "  nullis  penetrabilis 
astjHs*^ — in  that  sponge-like  and  cavernous  abode,  where- 
with benignant  Providence  had  suited  the  locality  to  the 
creature. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

New  imbroglio  in  that  ever-recurring,  never-to-be-settled  question, 
"What  will  he  do  with  it?" 

With  a  disappointed  glare,  and  a  baffled  shrug  of  the 
shoulder,  Mr.  Darrell  turned  from  the  dining-room,  and 
passed  up  the  stairs  to  Lionel's  chamber,  opened  the  door 
quickly,  and  extending  his  hand,  said,  in  that  tone  which 
had  disarmed  the  wrath  of  ambitious  factions,,  and  even 
(if  fame  lie  not)  once  seduced  from  the  hostile  Treasury- 
bench  a  placeman's  vote,  "  I  must  have  hurt  your  feelings, 
and  I  come  to  beg  your  pardon  ! " 

B  it  before  this  time  Lionel's  proud  heart,  in  which  un- 
grateful anger  could  not  long  find  room,  had  smitten  him 
for  so  ill  a  return  to  well-meant  and  not  indelicate  kind- 
ness. And,  his  wounded  egotism  appeased  by  its  very 
outburst,  he  had  called  to  mind  Fairthorn's  allusions  to 
Darrell's  secret  griefs — griefs  that  must  have  been  indeed 
stormy  so  to  have  revulsed  the  currents  of  a  life.  And, 
despite  those  griefs,  the  great  man  had  spoken  playfully 


172  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

to  him  —  playfully  in  order  to  make  light  of  obligations. 
So  when  Guy  Darrell  now  extended  that  hand,  and 
stooped  to  that  apology,  Lionel  was  fairly  overcome. 
Tears^  before  refused,  now  found  irresistible  way.  The 
hand  he  could  not  take,  but,  yielding  to  his  yearning  im- 
pulse, he  threw  his  arms  fairly  round  his  host's  neck, 
leaned  his  young  cheek  upon  that  granite  breast,  and 
Bobbed  out  incoherent  words  of  passionate  repentance  — 
honest,  venerating  affection.  Darrell's  face  changed, 
looking  for  a  moment  wondrous  soft — and  then,  as  by  an 
effort  of  supreme  self-control,  it  became  severely  placid. 
He  did  not  return  that  embrace,  but  certainly  he  in  no 
way  repelled  it ;  nor  did  he  trust  himself  to  speak  till  the 
boy  had  exhausted  the  force  of  his  first  feelings,  and  had 
turned  to  dry  his  tears. 

Then  he  said,  with  a  soothing  sweetness :  "  Lionel 
Haughton,  you  have  the  heart  of  a  gentleman  that  can 
never  listen  to  a  frank  apology  for  unintentional  wrong, 
but  what  it  springs  forth  to  take  the  blame  to  itself,  and 
return  apology  ten-fold.  Enough  !  A  mistake,  no  doubt, 
on  both  sides.  More  time  must  elapse  before  either  can 
truly  say  that  he  does  not  like  the  other.  Meanwhile," 
added  Darrell,  with  almost  a  laugh — and  that  concluding 
query  showed  that  even  on  trifles  the  man  was  bent  upon 
either  forcing  or  stealing  his  own  will  upon  others  — 
'*  meanwhile,  must  I  send  away  the  tailor  ? " 

I  need  not  repeat  Lionel's  answer. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  1T3 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Darrell:  mystery  in  his  past  life.     What  has  he  done  with  it  ? 

Some  days  passed  —  each  day  varying  little  from  the 
other.  It  was  the  habit  of  Darrell,  if  he  weut  late  to  rest, 
to  rise  early.  He  never  allowed  himself  more  than  five 
hours'  sleep.  A  man  greater  than  Guy  Darrell  —  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  —  carved  from  the  solid  day  no  larger  a 
slice  for  Morpheus.  And  it  was  this  habit,  perhaps,  yet 
more  than  temperance  in  diet,  which  preserved  to  Darrell 
his  remarkable  youthfulness  of  aspect  and  frame,  so  that 
at  fifty-two  he  looked,  and  really  was,  younger  than  many 
a  strong  man  of  thirty-five.  For,  certain  it  is,  that  on 
entering  middle  life,  he  who  would  keep  his  brain  clear, 
his  step  elastic,  his  muscles  from  fleshiness,  his  nerves 
from  tremor  —  in  a  word,  retain  his  youth  in  spite  of  the 
register — should  beware  of  long  slumbers.  Nothing  ages 
like  laziness.  The  hours  before  breakfast  Darrell  devoted 
first  to  exercise,  whatever  the  weather  —  next  to  his  calm 
Bcieutific  pursuits.  At  ten  o'clock  punctually  he  rode  out 
alone,  and  seldom  returned  till  late  in  the  afternoon.  Then 
he  would  stroll  forth  with  Lionel  into  devious  woodlands, 
or  lounge  with  him  along  the  margin  of  the  lake,  or  lie 
down  on  the  tedded  grass,  call  the  boy's  attention  to  the 
insect  populace  which  sports  out  its  happy  life  in  the 
15* 


174  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

summer  months,  and  treat  of  the  ways  and  habits  of  each 
varying  species,  with  a  quaint  learning,  half  humorous, 
half  grave.  He  was  a  minute  observer  and  an  accom- 
plished naturalist.  His  range  of  knowledge  was,  indeed, 
amazingly  large  for  a  man  who  has  had  to  pass  his  best 
years  in  a  dry  and  absorbing  study :  necessarily  not  so 
profound  in  each  section  as  that  of  a  special  professor, 
but  if  the  science  was  often  on  the  surface,  the  thoughts 
he  deduced  from  what  he  knew  were  as  often  original  and 
deep.  A  maxim  of  his,  which  he  dropped  out  one  day 
to  Lionel  in  his  careless  manner,  but  pointed  diction,  may 
perhaps  illustrate  his  own  practice  and  its  results :  "  Never 
think  it  enough  to  have  solved  the  problem  started  by 
another  mind,  till  you  have  deduced  from  it  a  corollary 
of  your  own." 

After  dinner,  which  was  not  over  till  past  eight  o'clock, 
they  always  adjourned  to  the  library,  Fairthorn  vanishing 
into  a  recess,  Darrcll  and  Lionel  each  with  his  several 
book,  then  an  air  on  the  flute,  and  each  to  his  own  room 
before  eleven.  No  life  could  be  more  methodical ;  yet  to 
Lionel  it  had  an  animating  charm,  for  his  interest  in  his 
host  daily  increased,  and  varied  his  thoughts  with  per- 
petual occupation.  Darrell,  on  the  contrary,  while  more 
kind  and  cordial,  more  cautiously  on  his  guard  not  to 
wound  his  young  guest's  susceptibilities  than  he  had  been 
before  the  quarrel  and  its  reconciliation,  did  not  seem  to 
feel  for  Lionel  the  active  interest  which  Lionel  folt  for 
him.  He  did  not,  as  most  clever  men  are  apt  to  do  in 
their  intercourse  with  youth,  attempt  to  draw  him  out, 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  175 

plomb  his  intellect,  or  guide  his  tastes.  If  he  was  at  times 
iiistruetivc,  it  was  because  talk  fell  on  subjects  on  which 
it  pleased  himself  to  touch,  and  in  which  he  could  not 
speak  without  involuntarily  instructing.  Nor  did  he  ever 
allure  the  boy  to  talk  of  his  school-days,  of  his  friends, 
of  his  predilections,  his  hopes,  his  future.  In  short,  had 
you  observed  them  together,  you  would  have  never  sup- 
posed they  were  connections  —  that  one  could  and  ought 
to  influence  and  direct  the  career  of  the  other.  You  would 
have  said  the  host  certainly  liked  the  guest,  as  any  man 
would  like  a  promising,  warm-hearted,  high-spirited,  grace- 
ful boy,  under  his  own  roof  for  a  short  time,  but  who  felt 
that  that  boy  was  nothing  to  him — would  soon  pass  from 
his  eye-  -form  friends,  pursuits,  aims — with  which  he  could 
be  in  no  way  commingled,  for  which  he  should  be  wholly 
irresponsible.  There  was  also  this  peculiarity  in  Darrell's 
conversation :  if  he  never  spoke  of  his  guest's  past  and 
future,  neither  did  he  ever  do  more  than  advert  in  the 
most  general  terms  to  his  own.  Of  that  grand  stage,  on 
which  he  had  been  so  brilliant  an  actor,  he  imparted  no 
reminiscences  ;  of  those  great  men,  the  leaders  of  his  age, 
with  whom  he  had  mingled  familiarly,  he  told  no  anec- 
dotes. Equally  silent  was  he  as  to  the  earlier  steps  in 
Lis  career,  the  modes  by  which  he  had  studied,  the  acci- 
dents of  which  he  had  seized  advantage  —  silent  there  as 
upon  the  causes  he  had  gained,  or  the  debates  he  liad 
adorned.  Xever  could  you  have  supposed  that  this  man, 
still  in  the  prime  of  .public  life,  had  been  the  theme  of 
journals,  and  the  boast  of  party.     Neither  did  he  ever, 


IT6  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

as  men  who  talk  easily  at  their  own  hearths  are  prone  to 
do,  speak  of  projects  in  the  future,  even  though  the  pro- 
jects be  no  vaster  than  the  planting  of  a  tree  or  the  altera- 
tion of  a  parterre — projects  with  which  rural  life  so  copi- 
ously and  so  innocently  teems.  The  past  seemed  as  if  it 
had  left  to  him  no  memory,  the  future  as  if  it  stored  for 
him  no  desire.  But  did  the  past  leave  no  memory  ?  Why 
then  at  intervals  would  the  book  slide  from  his  eye,  the 
head  sink  upon  the  breast,  and  a  shade  of  unutterable 
dejection  darken  over  the  grand  beauty  of  that  strong 
stern  countenance  ?  Still  that  dejection  was  not  morbidly 
fed  and  encouraged,  for  he  would  fling  it  from  him  with  a 
quick  impatient  gesture  of  the  head,  resume  the  book  re- 
solutely, or  change  it  for  another  which  induced  fresh 
trains  of  thought,  or  look  over  Lionel's  shoulder,  and 
make  some  subtle  comment  on  his  choice,  or  call  on  Fair- 
thorn  for  the  flute ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  face  was 
severely  serene  again.  And  be  it  here  said,  that  it  is  only 
in  the  poetry  of  young  gentlemen,  or  the  prose  of  lady 
novelists,  that  a  man  in  good  health,  and  of  sound  intel- 
lect, wears  the  livery  of  unvarying  gloom.  However  great 
his  causes  of  sorrow,  he  does  not  forever  parade  its  osten- 
tatious mourning,  nor  follow  the  hearse  of  his  hopes  with 
the  long  face  of  an  undertaker.  He  will  still  have  his 
gleams  of  cheerfulness  —  his  moments  of  good-humor. 
The  old  smile  will  sometimes  light  the  eye,  and  awake  the 
old  playfulness  of  the  lip.  But  what  a  great  and  critical 
sorrow  does  leave  behind  is  often  far  worse  than  the  sor- 
row itself  has  been.    It  is  a  change  in  the  inner  man,  which 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  ITT 

» 

strands  him,  as  Guy  Darrell  seemed  stranded,  upon  the 
shoal  of  the  Present ;  which,  the  more  he  strive  manfully 
to  l)ear  his  burden,  warns  him  the  more  from  dwelling  on 
the  Past ;  and  the  more  impressively  it  enforce  the  lesson 
of  the  vanity  of  human  wishes,  strikes  the  more  from  his 
reckoning  illusive  hopes  in  the  Future.  Thus  out  of  our 
threefold  existence  two  parts  are  annihilated  —  the  what 
has  been  —  the  what  shall  be.  We  fold  our  arms,  stand 
upon  the  petty  and  steep  cragstone,  which  alone  looms 
out  of  the  Measureless  Sea,  and  say  to  ourselves,  looking 
neither  backward  nor  beyond,  "  Let  us  bear  what  is ;  " 
and  sc  for  the  moment  the  eye  can  lighten  and  the  lip 
can  smile. 

Lionel  could  no  longer  glean  from  Mr.  Fairthorn  any 
stray  hints  upon  the  family  records.  That  gentleman 
had  evidently  been  reprimanded  for  indiscretion,  or 
warned  against  its  repetition,  and  he  became  reserved 
and  mum  as  if  he  had  just  emerged  from  the  cave  of  Tro- 
phonius.  Indeed  he  shunned  trusting  himself  again  alone 
to  Lionel,  and,  affecting  a  long  arrear  of  correspondence 
on  behalf  of  his  employer,  left  the  lad  during  the  fore- 
noons to  solitary  angling,  or  social  intercourse  with  the 
swans  and  the  tame  doe.  But  from  some  mystic  conceal- 
ment within  doors  would  often  float  far  into  the  open  air 
the  melodies  of  that  magic  flute  ;  and  the  boy  would  glide 
back,  along  the  dark-red  mournful  walls  of  the  old  house, 
or  the  futile  pomp  of  pilastered  arcades  in  the  uncompleted 
new  one,  to  listen  to  the  sound  :  listening,  he,  blissful  boy, 
forgot  the  present ;  he  seized  the  unchallenged  royalty  of 

M 


178  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

• 

his  years.  For  him  no  rebels  in  the  past  conspired  with 
poison  to  the  wine-cup,  murder  to  the  sleep.  No  deS'^rts 
in  the  future,  arresting  the  march  of  ambition,  said,  "  Here 
are  sands  for  a  pilgrim,  not  fields  for  a  conqueror." 


CHAPTER   X. 

In  which  chapter  the  History  quietly  moves  on  to  the  next. 

Thus  nearly  a  week  had  gone,  and  Lionel  began  to 
feel  perplexed  as  to  the  duration  of  his  visit.  Should  he 
be  the  first  to  suggest  departure  ?  Mr.  Darrell  rescued 
him  from  that  embarrassment.  On  the  seventh  day, 
Lionel  met  him  in  a  lane  near  the  house,  returning  from 
his  habitual  ride.  The  boy  walked  home  by  the  side  of 
the  horseman,  patting  the  steed,  admiring  its  shape,  and 
praising  the  beauty  of  another  saddle-horse,  smaller  and 
slighter,  which  he  had  seen  in  the  paddock  exercised  by  a 
groom.  "  Do  you  ever  ride  that  chestnut  ?  I  think  it 
even  handsomer  than  this." 

"  Half  our  preferences  are  due  to  the  vanity  they 
flatter.  Few  can  ride  this  horse  —  any  one,  perhaps, 
that." 

"  There  speaks  the  Dare-all ! "  said  Lionel,  laughing. 

The  hos'   did  not  look  displeased. 

"  Where  no  difficulty,  there  no  pleasure,"  said  he,  lu 
his  curt  laconic  diction.  "  I  was  in  Spain  two  years  ago. 
I  had  not  an   English  horse    there,   so   I   bought  that 


WHAT     WILL     HE    DO    WITH     IT?  179 

Andalusian  jemiet.  What  has  served  him  at  need,  no 
prcux  chevalier  would  leave  to  the  chance  of  ill-usage. 
So  the  jennet  came  with  me  to  England.  You  have  not 
been  much  accustomed  to  ride,  I  suppose?" 

"  Not  much  ;  but  my  dear  mother  thought  I  ought  to 
learn.  She  pinched  for  a  whole  j^ear  to  have  me  taught 
at  a  riding-school  during  one  school  vacation." 

"  Your  mother's  relations  are,  T  believe,  well  oif.  Do 
they  suffer  her  to  pinch?" 

"I  do  not  know  that  she  has  relations  living;  she 
never  speaks  of  them." 

"  Indeed  ! "  This  was  the  first  question  on  home 
matters  that  Darrell  had  ever  directly  addressed  to 
Lionel.  He  there  dropped  the  subject,  and  said,  after  a 
short  pause,  "  I  was  not  aware  that  you  are  a  horseman, 
or  I  would  have  asked  you  to  accompany  me  ;  will  you 
do  so  to-morrow,  and  mount  the  jennet?" 

"Oh,  thank  you;  I  should  like  it  so  much." 

Darrell  turned  abruptly  away  from  the  bright  grateful 
eyes.  "I  am  only  sorry,"  he  added,  looking  aside,  "that 
our  excursions  can  be  but  few.  On  Friday  next  I  shall 
submit  to  you  a  proposition ;  if  you  accept  it,  we  shall 
part  on  Saturday  —  liking  each  other,  I  hope  ;  speaking 
for  myself,  the  experiment  has  not  failed  ;  and  on  yours  ?  " 

"  On  mine  I  oh,  Mr.  Darrell,  if  I  dared  but  tell  you 
what  recollections  of  yourself  the  experiment  will  be 
queath  to  me  !  " 

"  Do  not  tell  me,  if  they  imply  a  compliment,"  answered 
Darrell,  with  a  low  silvery  laugh  which  so  raelodiousl,^ 


]80  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

expressed  indifiference,  and  repelled  affection.    He  entered 

the  stable-yard,  dismounted  ;  and  on  returring  to  Lionel, 

the  sound  of  the  flute  stole  forth,  as  if  from  the  eaves  of 

the  gabled  roof.     "  Could  the  pipe  of  Horace's  Faunns 

be  sweeter  than  that  flute  ? "  said  Darrell, 

'■''  '■TJlcunqua  dulci,    Tyndare,  fistula, 
Valles,'  etc. 

What  a  lovely  ode  that  is !  What  knowledge  of  town 
life  !  what  susceptibility  to  the  rural  !  Of  all  the  Latins, 
Horace  is  the  only  one  with  whom  I  could  wish  to  have 
spent  a  week.  But  no  !  I  could  not  have  discussed  the 
brief  span  of  human  life  with  locks  steeped  in  Malobathran 
balm,  and  wreathed  with  that  silly  myrtle.  Horace  and 
I  would  have  quarreled  over  the  first  heady  bowi  of 
Massic.  We  never  can  quarrel  now  I  Blessed  subject 
and  poet-laureate  of  Queen  Proserpine,  and,  I  dare 
swear,  the  most  gentlemanlike  poet  she  ever  received  at 
court,  henceforth  his  task  is  to  uncoil  the  asps  from  the 
brows  of  Alecto,  and  arrest  the  ambitious  Orion  from  the 
chase  after  visionary  lions." 


CHAPTER   XI. 

Shewing  that  if  a  good  face  is  a  letter  of  recommendation,  a  good 
heart  is  a  letter  of  credit. 

The  next  day  they  rode  forth,  host  and  guest,  and 
that  ride  proved  an  eventful  crisis  in  the  fortune  of 
Lionel  Haughton  Hitherto  I  have  elaborately  dwelt 
on  the  fact  that,  whatever  the  regard  Darrell  might  feel 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH     IT?  181 

for  him,  it  was  a  regard  apart  from  that  interest  which 
accepts  a  responsibility,  and  links  to  itself  a  fate.  And 
even  if,  at  moments,  the  powerful  and  wealthy  man  had 
felt  that  interest,  he  had  thrust  it  from  him.  That  he 
meant  to  be  generous  was  indeed  certain,  and  this  he  had 
typically  shown  in  a  very  trite  matter-of-fact  way.  The 
tailor,  whose  visit  had  led  to  such  perturbation,  had  re- 
ceived instructions  beyond  the  mere  supply  of  the  rai- 
ment for  which  he  had  been  summoned ;  and  a  large 
patent  portmanteau,  containing  all  that  might  constitute 
the  liberal  outfit  of  a  young  man  in  the  rank  of  a  gentle- 
man, had  arrived  at  Fawley,  and  amazed  and  moved 
Lionel,  whom  Darrell  had  by  this  time  thoroughly  re- 
conciled to  the  acceptance  of  benefits.  The  gift  denoted 
this,  "  In  recognising  you  as  kinsman,  I  shall  henceforth 
provide  for  you  as  gentleman."  Darrell  indeed  meditated 
applying  for  an  appointment  in  one  of  the  public  offices, 
the  settlement  of  a  liberal  allowance,  and  a  parting  shake 
of  the  hand,  which  should  imply,  "  I  have  now  behaved 
as  becomes  me  ;  the  rest  belongs  to  you.  We  may  never 
meet  again.  There  is  no  reason  why  this  good-bj  may 
not  be  forever." 

But  in  the  course  of  that  ride  Darrell's  intentions 
changed.  Wherefore  ?  You  will  never  guess  !  Nothing 
so  remote  as  the  distance  between  cause  and  effect,  and 
the  cause  for  the  effect  here  was  —  poor  little  Sophy. 

The  day  was  fresh,  with  a  lovely  breeze,  as  the  two 
riders  rode  briskly  over  the  turf  of  rolling  common-lands, 
^vith   the    feathery   boughs   of    neighboring   woodUnda 

I.  — 16 


t82  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

tossed  joyously  to  and  fro  by  the  sportive  summer  wind. 
The  exhilarating  exercise  and  air  raised  Lionel's  spirits, 
and  released  his  tongue  from  all  trammels ;  and  when  a 
boy  is  in  high  spirits,  ten  to  one  but  he  grows  a  frank 
egotist,  feels  the  teeming  life  of  his  individuality,  and  talks 
about   himself.     Quite  unconsciously  Lionel  rattled  out 
gay  anecdotes  of  his  school-days ;  his  quarrel  with  a  de- 
moniacal usher;  how  he  ran  away  ;  what  befell  him  ;  how 
the  doctor  went  after,  and  brought  him  back  ;  how  splen- 
didly the  doctor  behaved  —  neither  flogged  nor  expelled 
him,  but  after  patient  listening,  v/hile  he   rebuked  the 
pupil  dismissed  the  usher,  to  the  joy  of  the  whole  academy  ; 
how  he  fought  the  head  boy  in  the  school  for  calling  the 
doctor  a  sneak ;  how,  licked  twice,  he  yet  fought  that 
head  boy  a  third  time,  and  licked  him  ;  how,  when  head 
boy  himself,*  he  had  roused  the  whole  school  into  a  civil 
war,  dividing  the  boys  into  Cavaliers  and  Ptoundheads ; 
how  clay  was  rolled  out  into  cannon-balls  and  pistol-shot, 
sticks  shaped  into  swords ;  the  play-ground  disturfed  to 
construct  fortifications;  how  a  slovenly  stout  boy  enacted 
Cromwell ;    how  he   himself  was   elevated    into    Prince 
Rupert ;  and  how,  reversing  all  history,  and  infamously 
degrading   Cromwell,  Rupert  would  not  consent  to  be 
beaten  ;  and  Cromwell  at  the  last,  disabled  by  an  unto- 
ward  blow   across   the    knuckles,  ignominiously  yielded 
himself    prisoner,    was    tried    by   a    court-martial,    and 
sentenced  to  be  shot !     To  all  this  rubbish  did  Darrell  in- 
cline his  patient  ear —  not  encouraging,  not  interrupting, 
but  sometimes   stifling  a  sigh  at  the  sound  of  Lionel's 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  183 

merry  laugh,  or  the  sight  of  his  fair  face,  with  heightened 
glow  ou  its  cheeks,  and  his  long  silky  hair,  worthy  the 
name  of  love-locks,  blown  by  the  wind  from  the  open 
loyal  features,  which  might  well  have  graced  the  portrait 
of  some  youthful  Cavalier.  On  bounded  the  Spanish 
jennet,  on  rattled  the  boy  rider.  Pie  had  left  school 
now,  in  his  headlong  talk ;  he  was  describing  his  first 
friendship  with  Frank  Yance,  as  a  lodger  at  his  mother's  ; 
how  example  fired  him,  and  he  took  to  sketch-work  and 
painting;  how  kindly  Vance  gave  him  lessons;  how  at 
one  time  he  wished  to  be  a  painter ;  how  much  the  mere 
idea  of  such  a  thing  vexed  his  mother,  and  how  little  she 
was  moved  when  he  told  her  that  Titian  was  of  a  very 
ancient  family,  and  that  Francis  I.,  archetype  of  gentle- 
men, visited  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  sick-bed ;  and  that 
Henry  VIII.  had  said  to  a  pert  lord  who  had  snubbed 
Holbein,  "  I  can  make  a  lord  any  day,  but  I  cannot  make 
a  Holbein ; "  how  Mrs.  Haughton  still  confounded  all 
painters  in  the  general  image  of  the  painter  and  plumber 
who  iiad  cheated  her  so  shamefully  in  the  renewed 
window-sashes  and  redecorated  walls,  which  Time  and 
the  four  children  of  an  Irish  family  had  made  necessary 
to  the  letting  of  the  first  floor.  And  these  playful  allu- 
sions to  the  maternal  ideas  were  still  not  irreverent,  but 
contrived  so  as  rather  to  prepossess  Darrcll  in  Mrs, 
Haughton's  favor,  by  bringing  out  traits  of  a  simple 
natural  mother,  tootproud,  perhaps,  of  her  only  son,  not 
naring  what  she  did,  how  she  worked,  so  that  he  might 
not  lose  caste  as  a  born  Haughton      Darrell  understood, 


184  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

aDd  nodded  his  head  approvingly.  "  Certainly,"  he  said, 
speaking  almost  for  the  first  time,  "  fame  confers  a  rank 
above  that  of  gentlemen  and  of  kings  ;  and  as  soon  as  she 
issues  her  patent  of  nobility,  it  matters  not  a  straw 
whether  the  recipient  be  the  son  of  a  Bourbon  or  of  a 
tallow-chandler.  But  if  Fame  withhold  her  patent  —  if  a 
well-born  man  paint  aldermen,  and  be  not  famous  (and  I 
dare  say  you  would  have  been  neither  a  Titian  nor  a 
Holbein),  why,  he  might  as  well  be  a  painter  and  plumber, 
and  has  a  better  chance,  even  of  bread  and  cheese,  by 
standing  to  his  post  as  gentleman.  Mrs.  Haughton  v>^as 
right,  and  I  respect  her." 

"  Quite  right.     If  I  lived  to  the  age  of  Methuselah,  I 
could  not  paint  a  head  like  Frank  Yance." 

"  And  even  he  is  not  famous  yet.  Never  heard  of  him." 
"  He  will  be  famous  —  I  am  sure  of  it ;  and  if  you  lived 
in  London,  you  would  hear  of  him  even  now.  Oh,  Sir  1 
such  a  portrait  as  he  painted  the  other  day  !  But  I  must 
tell  you  all  about  it."  And  therewith  Lionel  plunged  at 
once,  medias  res,  into  the  brief  broken  epic  of  -little 
Sophy,  and  the  eccentric  infirm  Belisarius  for  whose  sake 
t5he  first  toiled  and  then  begged  :  with  what  artless  elo- 
quence he  brought  out  the  colors  of  the  whole  story  — 
now  its  humor,  now  its  pathos ;  with  what  beautifying 
sympathy  he  adorned  the  image  of  the  little  vagrant  girl, 
with  her  mien  of  gentlewoman  and  her  simplicity  of 
child ;  the  river-excursion  to  Hamptpn  Court ;  her  still 
delight ;  how  annoyed  he  felt  when  Yance  seemed  ashamed 
of  her  before  those  fine  people ;    the  orchard  scene  io 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  185 

which  he  had  read  Darrell's  letter,  that,  for  the  time, 
drove  her  from  the  foremost  place  in  his  thoughts ;  the 
return  home,  the  parting,  her  wistful  look  back,  the  visit 
to  the  Cobbler's  next  day — even  her  farewell  gift,  the 
nursery  poem,  with  the  lines  written  on  the  fly-leaf,  he 
had  them  by  heart  I  Darrell,  the  grand  advocate,  felt  he 
could  not  have  produced  on  a  jury,  with  those  elements 
the  effect  which  that  boy-narrator  produced  on  his  granite 
self. 

"  And,  oh.  Sir  I "  cried  Lionel,  checking  his  horse,  and 
even  arresting  Darrell's  with  bold  right  hand,  "  oh  I  "  said 
he,  as  he  brought  his  moist  and  pleading  eyes  in  full 
battery  upon  the  shaken  fort  to  which  he  had  mined  his 
way  —  "oh  Sir  I  you  are  so  wise,  and  rich,  and  kind,  do 
rescue  that  poor  child  from  the  penury  and  hardships  of 
such  a  life  1  If  you  could  but  have  seen  and  heard  her  I 
She  could  never  have  been  born  to  it  I  You  look  away 
—  I  offend  you.  I  have  no  right  to  tax  your  benevolence 
for  others ;  but,  instead  of  showering  favors  upon  me, 
so  little  would  suffice  for  her,  if  she  were  but  above 
positive  want,  with  that  old  man  (she  would  not  be 
happy  without  him),  safe  in  such  a  cottage  as  you  give 
to  your  own  peasants  I  I  am  a  man,  or  shall  be  one 
soon  ;  I  can  wrestle  with  the  world,  and  force  my  way 
somehow ;  but  that  delicate  child,  a  village  show,  or  a 
beggar  on  the  high-road  I  no  mother,  no  brother,  no  one 
but  that  broken-down  cripple,  leaning  upon  her  arm  as 
his  crutch.  I  can  not  bear  to  think  of  it.  I  am  sure  1 
«ttall  meet  her  again  somewhere ;  and  when  I  do,  may 
16=^ 


186  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?^ 

I  not  write  to  you,  and  will  you  not  come  to  her  help  ? 
Do  speak  —  do  say  'Yes,'  Mr.  Darrell." 

The  rich  man's  breast  heaved  slightly ;  he  closed  his 
eyes,  but  for  a  moment.  There  was  a  short  and  sharp 
struggle  with  his  better  self,  and  the  better  self  conquered. 

"Let  go  my  reins  —  see,  my  horse  puts  down  his  ears 
—  he  may  do  you  a  mischief.  Now  canter  on  —  you 
shall  be  satisfied.  Give  me  a  moment  to  —  to  unbutton 
my  coat  —  it  is  too  tight  for  me." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Guy  Darrell  gives  way  to  an  impulse,  and  quickly  decides  what  ho 
will  do  with  it 

"Lionel  Haughton,"  said  Guy  Darrell,  regaining  his 
young  cousin's  side,  and  speaking  in  a  firm  and  measured 
voice,  "  I  have  to  thank  you  for  one  very  happy  minute  ; 
the  sight  of  a  heart  so  fresh  in  the  limpid  purity  of  good- 
ness is  a  luxury  you  can  not  comprehend  till  you  have 
come  to  my  age ;  journeyed,  like  me,  from  Dan  to  Beersheba, 
and  found  all  barren.  Heed  me  ;  if  you  had  been  half  a 
dozen  years  older,  and  this  child  for  whom  you  plead  had 
been  a  fair  young  woman,  perhaps  just  as  innocent,  just  as 
charming  —  more  in  peril  —  my  benevolence  would  have 
lain  as  dormant  as  a  stone.  A  young  man's  foolish  senti- 
ment for  a  pretty  girl.  As  your  true  friend,  I  should 
have  shrugged  my  shoulders,  and  said,  '  Beware  I ''     Had 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  181 

I  been  your  father,  I  should  have  taken  alarm,  and 
frowned.  I  should  have  seen  the  sickly  romance,  which 
ends  in  dupes  or  deceivers.  But  at  your  age,  you  hearty, 
genial,  and  open-hearted  boy  —  you  caught  but  by  the 
chivalrous  compassion  for  helpless  female  childhood  — 
oh,  that  you  were  my  son  —  oh,  that  my  dear  father's 
blood  were  in  those  knightly  veins  !  I  had  a  son  once.  God 
took  him  ;"  the  strong  man's  lips  quivered — he  hurried  on. 
"I  felt  there  was  manhood  in  you  when  you  wrote  to  fling 
my  churlish  favors  in  my  teeth  —  when  you  would  have  left 
my  roof-tree  in  a  burst  of  passion  which  might  be  foolish, 
but  was  nobler  than  the  wisdom  of  calculating  submission 
—  manhood,  but  only  perhaps  man's  pride  as  man — man's 
heart  not  less  cold  than  winter.  To-day  you  have  shown 
me  something  far  better  than  pride  ;  that  nature  which 
constitutes  the  heroic  temperament  is  completed  by  two 
attributes  —  unflinching  purpose,  disinterested  humanity. 
I  know  not  yet  if  you  have  the  first ;  you  reveal  to  me 
the  second.  Yes  !  I  accept  the  duties  you  propose  to  me  ; 
I  will  do  more  than  leave  to  you  the  chance  of  discover- 
ing this  poor  child.  I  will  direct  my  solicitor  to  take  the 
right  steps  to  do  so.  I  will  see  that  she  is  safe  from  the 
ills  you  fear  for  her.  Lionel ;  more  still,  I  am  impatient 
till  I  write  to  Mrs.  Haughton.  I  did  her  wrong.  Re- 
member, I  have  never  seen  her.  I  resented  in  her  the 
cause  of  my  quarrel  with  your  father,  who  was  once  dear 
to  me.  Enough  of  that.  I  disliked  the  tone  of  her 
letters  to  me.  I  dislike  it  in  the  mother  of  a  boy  who 
had  Darrell  blood;  other  reasons  too  —  let  them  pass. 


188  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

But  in  providing  for  your  education,  I  certainly  thought 
her  relations  provided  for  her  support.  She  never  asked 
me  for  help  there  ;  and,  judging  of  her  hastily,  I  thought 
she  would  not  have  scrupled  to  do  so  if  my  help  there  had 
not  been  forestalled.  You  have  made  me  understand 
her  better ;  and  at  all  events,  three-fourths  of  what  we 
are  in  boyhood  most  of  us  owe  to  our  mothers  1  You 
are  frank,  fearless,  affectionate  —  a  gentleman.  I  respect 
the  mother  who  has  such  a  son." 

Certainly  praise  was  rare  upon  Darrell's  lips ;  but, 
when  he  did  praise,  he  knew  how  to  do  it !  And  no  man 
will  ever  command  others  who  has  not  by  nature  that 
gift.  It  can  not  be  learned.  Art  and  experience  can 
only  refine  its  expression. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

He  who  sees  his  heir  in  his  own  child,  carries  his  eye  over  hopes 
and  possessions  lying  far  beyond  his  grave-stone ;  viewing  his 
life,  even  here,  as  a  period  but  closed  with  a  comma.  He  who 
sees  his  heir  in  another  man's  child,  sees  the  full  stop  at  the  end 
of  the  sentence. 

Lionel's  departure  was  indefinitely  postponed ;  no- 
thing more  was  said  of  it.  Meanwhile  Darrell's  manner 
toward  him  underwent  a  marked  change.  The  previous 
indifference  the  rich  kinsman  had  hitherto  shown  as  to 
the  boy's  past  life,  and  the  peculiarities  of  his  intellect 
and   character,  wholly  vanished.     He    sought  now,  on 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  189 

the  contrary,  to  plumb  thoroughly  the  more  hidden  depths 
which  lurk  in  the  nature  of  every  human  being,  and  which, 
in  Lionel's,  were  the  more  difficult  to  discern  from  the 
vivacity  and  candor  which  covered  with  so  smooth  and 
charming  a  surface  a  pride  tremulously  sensitive,  and  an 
ambition  that  startled  himself  in  the  hours  when  solitude 
and  reverie  reflect  upon  the  visions  of  Youth  the  giant 
outline  of  its  own  hopes. 

Darrell  was  not  dissatisfied  with  the  results  of  this 
survey;  yet  often,  when  perhaps  most  pleased,  a  shad® 
would  pass  over  his  countenance ;  and,  had  a  woman 
who  loved  him  been  by  to  listen,  she  would  have  heard 
the  short,  slight  sigh  which  came  and  went  too  quickly 
for  the  duller  sense  of  man's  friendship  to  recognise  it  as 
the  sound  of  sorrow. 

In  Darrell  himself,  thus  insensibly  altered,  Lionel  daily 
discovered  more  to  charm  his  interest  and  deepen  his  af- 
fection. In  this  man's  nature  there  were,  indeed,  such 
wondrous  under-currents  of  sweetness,  so  suddenly  gush- 
ing forth,  so  suddenly  vanishing  again  I  And  exquisite 
in  him  were  the  traits  of  that  sympathetic  tact  which  the 
world  calls  fine  breeding,  but  which  comes  only  from  a 
heart  at  once  chivalrous  and  tender,  the  more  bewitching 
in  Darrell  from  their  contrast  with  a  manner  usually  cold, 
and  a  bearing  so  stamped  with  masculine,  self-willed, 
haughty  power.  Thus  days  went  on  as  if  Lionel  had  be- 
come a  very  child  of  the  house.  But  his  sojourn  was  in 
truth  drawing  near  to  a  close  not  less  abrupt  and  unex- 
pected than  the  turn  in  his  host's  humors  to  which  he  owed 
the  delay  of  his  departure. 


190  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

One  bright  afternoon,  as  Darrell  was  standing  at  the 
window  of  his  private  study,  Fairthorn,  who  had  crept  in 
on  some  matter  of  business,  looked  at  his  countenance  long 
and  wistfully,  and  then,  shambling  up  to  his  side,  put  one 
hand  on  his  shoulder  with  a  light,  timid  touch,  and,  point- 
ing with  the  other  to  Lionel,  who  was  lying  on  the  grass 
in  front  of  the  casement,  reading  the  Faerie  Queen,  said, 
"  Why  do  you  take  him  to  your  heart  if  he  does  not  com- 
fort it?" 

Darrell  winced,  and  answered  gently,  "  I  did  not  know 
you  were  in  the  room.     Poor  Fairthorn  I  thank  you  ! " 

"Thank  me  !  — what  for?" 

"  For  a  kind  thought.     So  then  you  like  the  boy  ?  " 

"  Mayn't  I  like  him  ?  "  asked  Fairthorn,  looking  rather 
frightened  ;   "  surely  you  do  ! " 

"  Yes,  I  like  him  much  ;  I  am  trying  my  best  to  love 
him.  But,  but  —  "  Darrell  turned  quickly,  and  the  por- 
trait of  his  father  over  the  mantle-piece  came  full  upon  his 
sight  —  an  impressive,  a  haunting  face  —  sweet  and  gentle, 
yet  with  the  high,  narrow  brow  and  arched  nostril  of  pride, 
with  restless,  melancholy  eyes,  and  an  expression  that  re- 
vealed the  delicacy  of  intellect,  but  not  its  power.  Thcrj 
was  something  forlorn,  yet  imposing,  in  the  whole  effigy. 
As  you  continued  to  look  at  the  countenance  the  mournful 
attraction  grew  upon  you.  Truly  a  touching  and  a  most 
lovable  aspect.     Darrell's  eyes  moistened. 

"  Yes,  my  father,  it  is  so  I "  he  said,  softly.  "All  my 
sacrifices  were  in  vain.  The  race  is  not  to  be  rebuilt  I  No 
grandchild  of  yours  will  succeed  me  —  me,  the  last  of  the 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  191 

old  line  I  Fairthorn,  how  can  I  love  that  boy  ?  lie  may 
De  my  heir,  and  in  his  veins  not  a  drop  of  my  father's 
blood  1 " 

"  But  he  has  the  blood  of  your  father's  ancestors  ;  and 
why  must  you  think  of  him  as  your  heir  ?  —  you,  who,  if 
you  would  but  go  again  into  the  world,  might  yet  find  a 
fair  wi  —  " 

With  such  a  stamp  came  Darrell's  foot  upon  the  floor 
that  the  holy  and  conjugal  monosyllable  dropping  from 
Fairthorn's  lips  was  as  much  (sut  in  two  as  if  a  shark  had 
snapped  it.  Unspeakably  frightened,  the  poor  man  sidled 
away,  thrust  himself  behind  a  tall  reading-desk,  and,  peer- 
ing aslant  from  that  covert,  whimpered  out,  "Don't,  don't 
now  —  don't  be  so  awful;  I  did  not  mean  to  offend,  but 
I'm  always  saying  something  I  did  not  mean ;  and  really 
you  look  so  young  still  (coaxingly),  and,  and  — " 

Darrell,  the  burst  of  rage  over,  had  sunk  upon  a  chair, 
his  face  bowed  over  his  hands,  and  his  breast  heaving  as 
if  with  suppressed  sobs. 

The  musician  forgot  his  fear ;  he  sprang  forward,  al- 
most upsetting  the  tall  desk  ;  he  flung  himself  on  his  knees, 
at  Darrell's  feet,  and  exclaimed,  in  broken  words,  "  Mas- 
ter, master,  forgive  me  I  Beast  that  I  was  1  Do  look  up 
—  do  smile,  or  else  beat  me  —  kick  me." 

Darrell's  right  hand  slid  gently  from  his  face,  and  fell 
into  Fairthorn's  clasp. 

"  Hush,  hush,"  muttered  the  man  of  granite  ;  "  one  mo- 
Tient,  and  it  will  be  over." 

One  moment  ?     That  might  be  but  a  figure  of  speech ; 


192  WHAT     WILL     HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

yet  before  Lionel  had  finished  half  the  canto  that  was 
plunging  him  into  fairy-land,  Darrell  was  standing  by  him 
with  his  ordinary,  tranquil  mien,  aud  Fairthorn's  flute  from 
behind  the  boughs  of  a  neighboring  lime-tree  was  breath- 
ing out  an  air  as  dulcet  as  if  careless  Fauns  still  piped  in 
Aready,  and  Grief  were  a  far  dweller  on  the  other  side  of 
the  mountains,  of  whom  shepherds,  reclining  under  sum- 
mer leaves,  speak  as  we  speak  of  hydras  and  unicorns 
and  things  in  fable. 

On,  on  swelled  the  mellow,  mellow,  witching  music ; 
and  now  the  worn  man  with  his  secret  sorrow,  and  the 
boy  with  his  frank,  glad  laugh,  are  passing  away,  side  by 
side,  over  the  turf,  with  its  starry  and  golden  wild-flowers, 
under  the  boughs  in  yon  Druid  copse,  from  which  they 
start  the  ringdove  —  farther  aud  farther,  still  side  by  side, 
now  out  of  sight,  as  if  the  dense  green  of  the  summer  had 
closed  around  them  like  waves.  But  still  the  flute  sounds 
on,  and  still  they  hear  it,  softer  and  softer,  as  they  go. 
Hark  I   io  you  not  hear  it  —  you? 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  193 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

There  are  certain  events  -which  to  each  man's  life  are  as  comets  to 
the  earth,  seemingly  strange  and  erratic  portents ;  distinct  from 
the  ordinary  lights  which  guide  our  course  and  mark  our  seasons, 
yet  true  to  their  own  laws,  potent  in  their  own  influences.  Phi- 
losophy speculates  on  their  effects,  and  disputes  upon  their  uses ; 
men  who  do  not  philosophize  regard  them  as  special  messengers 
and  bodes  of  evil. 

They  came  out  of  the  little  park  into  a  by-lane  ;  a  vast 
tract  of  common  land,  yellow  with  furze,  and  undulated 
with  swell  and  hollow  spreading  in  front ;  to  their  right 
the  dark  beech-woods,  still  beneath  the  weight  of  the  July 
noon.  Lionel  had  been  talking  about  the  Faerie  Queen, 
knight-errantry,  the  sweet,  impossible  dream-life  that,  safe 
from  Time,  glides  by  bower  and  hall,  through  magic  for- 
ests and  by  witching  caves,  in  the  world  of  poet-books. 
And  Darrell  listened,  and  the  flute-notes  mingled  with  the 
atmosphere  faint  and  far  off,  like  voices  from  that  world 
itself. 

Out  then  they  came,  this  broad  waste  land  between 
them ;  and  Lionel  said,  merrily : 

"  But  this  is  the  very  scene  I  Here  the  young  knight, 
leaving  his  father's  hall,  would  have  checked  his  destrier, 
glancing  wistfully  now  over  that  green  wild  which  seems 
60  boundless,  now  to  the  'umbrageous  horror'  of  those 
breathless  woodlands,  and  questioned  himself  which  way  to 
take  for  adventure." 

I.  — n  M 


} 


WBAT   WItL   ■■    ••    WIT«    IT? 


•mdmgbjhim 


dwkwi  M  if 
ApTt  Ml  Urkl  vtr*  •  fiu^  dwlkr  M  iW 
^BnulM,  of  vIkmi  tWpWnK  rvIMm 

^b  M  •wtlbd  Um  ■■■p»,  ■■■p,  » 
-  -  •  voni  AMI  villi  Ut  fvrr- 

bx;  Mill  l|g  ttarry  m4  £ 

bM|^  b  f^m  Dnrid  m^m^  froa 

riftirlovt  —  fMtWf  Mid  fcfftlMT.  tffl 

'  liglil,  M  if  IW  4«Mt  irtiM  cf  iW 

imI  ibMi  ttkt  vmtm   B^ttflitW 

II  Umj  iMar  lu  MlUr  m 


iMtoC 


tSruCb* 


ivtOdiUtj 


M  tWy  fa 


/ 


/ 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  x95 

object  it  longs  for ;  still  it  is  to  acquire  ;  it  never  deserts  us 
while  we  live." 

"  And  yet,  if  I  might,  I  should  like  to  ask,  what  you 
now  desire  that  you  do  not  possess  ?  " 

"I  —  nothing;  but  I  spoke  of  the  living  I  I  am  dead. 
Only,"  added  Darrell,  with  his  silvery  laugh,  "  I  say,  as 
poor  Chesterfield  said  before  me,  'it  is  a  secret  —  keep 
it.'" 

Lionel  made  no  reply ;  the  melancholy  of  the  words 
saddened  him  ;  but  Darrell's  manner  repelled  the  expres- 
sion of  sympathy  or  of  interest ;  and  the  boy  fell  into  con- 
jecture—  what  had  killed  to  the  world  this  man's  intel- 
lectual life  ? 

And  thus  silently  they  continued  to  wander  on  till  the 
sound  of  the  flute  had  long  been  lost  to  their  ears.  Was 
the  musician  playing  still  ? 

At  length  they  came  round  to  the  other  end  of  Fawley 
village,  and  Darrell  again  became  animated. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  he,  returning  to  the  subject  of  talk 
that  had  been  abruptly  suspended  —  '•  perhaps  the  love 
of  power  is  at  the  origin  of  each  restless  courtship  of 
Fortune ;  yet,  after  all,  who  has  power  with  less  alloy 
than  the  village  thane?  With  so  little  effort,  so  little 
thought,  the  man  in  the  manor-house  can  make  men  in 
the  cottage  happier  here  below,  and  more  fit  for  a  here- 
after yonder.  In  leaving  the  world  I  come  from  contest 
and  pilgrimage,  like  our  sires  tlie  Crusaders,  to  reign  at 
home." 

As  he  spoke  he  entered  one  of  the  cottages.     An  old 


196  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

paralytic  man  was  seated  by  the  fire,  hot  though  the  July 
sun  was  out  of  doors  ;  and  his  wife,  of  the  same  age,  and 
almost  as  helpless,  was  reading  to  him  a  chapter  in  the 
Old  Testament  —  the  fifth  chapter  in  Genesis,  containing 
the  genealogy,  age,  and  death  of  the  patriarchs  before 
the  Flood.  How  the  faces  of  the  couple  brightened  when 
Darrell  entered.  "  Master  Guy  ! "  said  the  old  man, 
tremulously  rising.  The  world-weary  orator  and  lawyer 
was  still  Master  Guy  to  him. 

*' Sit  down  Matthew,  and  let  me  read  you  a  chapter." 
Darrell  took  the  Holy  Book,  and  read  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount.  Never  had  Lionel  heard  any  thing  like  that 
reading  ;  the  feeling  which  brought  out  the  depth  of  the 
sense,  the  tones,  sweeter  than  the  flute,  which  clothed  the 
divine  words  in  music.  As  Darrell  ceased,  some  beauty 
seemed  gone  from  the  day.  He  lingered  a  few  minutes, 
talking  kindly  and  familiarly,  and  then  turned  into  another 
cottage,  where  lay  a  sick  woman.  He  listened  to  her 
ailments,  promised  to  send  her  something  to  do  her  good 
from  his  own  stores,  cheered  up  her  spirits,  and,  leaving 
her  happy,  turned  to  Lionel  with  a  glorious  smile,  that 
seemed  to  ask,  "And  is  there  not  power  in  this  ?" 

But  it  was  the  sad  peculiarity  of  this  remarkable  man, 
that  all  his  moods  were  subject  to  rapid  and  seemingly 
unaccountable  variations.  It  was  as  if  some  great  blow 
had  fallen  on  the  mainspring  of  his  organization,  and  left 
its  original  harmony  broken  up  into  fragments,  each  im- 
pressive in  itself,  but  running  one  into  the  other  with  an 
abrupt  discord,  as  a  harp  played  upon  by  the  winds    For, 


TVnAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  197 

after  this  evident  effort  at  self-consolation  or  self-support 
in  soothing  or  strengthening  others,  suddenly  Darrell'3 
head  fell  again  upon  his  breast,  and  he  walked  on,  up  the 
village  lane,  heeding  no  longer  either  the  open  doors  of 
expectant  cottagers,  or  the  salutation  of  humble  passers-by. 
"  And  I  could  have  been  so  happy  here  I "  he  said  sud- 
denly. "  Can  I  not  be  so  yet  ?  Ay,  perhaps,  when  I  am 
thoroughly  old  —  tied  to  the  world  but  by  the  thread  of 
an  hour.  Old  men  do  seem  happy ;  behind  them  all 
memories  faint,  save  those  of  childhood  and  sprightly 
youth  ;  before  them,  the  narrow  ford,  and  the  sun  dawning 
up  the  clouds  on  the  other  shore.  'Tis  the  critical  descent 
into  age  in  which  man  is  surely  most  troubled ;  griefs 
gone,  still  rankling  ;  nor,  strength  yet  in  his  limbs,  passion 
yet  in  his  heart,  reconciled  to  what  loom  nearest  in  the 
prospect  —  the  arm-chair  and  the  palsied  head.  Weill 
life  is  a  quaint  puzzle.  Bits  the  most  incongruous  join 
mto  each  other,  and  the  scheme  thus  gradually  becomes 
symmetrical  and  clear ;  when,  lo  !  as  the  infant  claps  his 
hands,  and  cries,  '  See,  see  !  the  puzzle  is  made  out  1 '  all 
the  pieces  are  swept  back  into  the  box  —  black  box  with 
the  gilded  nails.  Ho  !  Lionel,  look  up ;  there  is  our 
Tillage  church,  and  here,  close  at  my  right,  the  church- 
yard ! " 

Xow  while  Darrell  and  his  young  companion  were  di- 
recting their  gaze  to  the  right  of  the  village  lane,  toward 
the  small  gray  church  —  toward  the  sacred  burial-ground 
in  which,  here  and  there  among  humbler  graves,  stood 
the  monumental  stone  inscribed  to  the  memory  of  some 


198  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

former  Darrell,  for  whose  remains  the  living  sod  had  been 
preferred  to  the  family  vault;  while  both  slowly  neared 
the  funeral  spot,  and  leaned,  silent  and  musing,  over  the 
rail  that  fenced  it  from  the  animals  turned  to  graze  on  the 
Bward  of  the  surrounding  green,  a  foot-traveler,  a  stranger 
in  the  place,  loitered  on  the  threshold  of  the  small  way- 
side inn,  about  fifty  yards  off  to  the  left  of  the  lane,  and 
looked  hard  at  the  still  figures  of  the  two  kinsmen. 

Turning  then  to  the  hostess,  who  was  standing  some- 
what within  the  threshold,  a  glass  of  brandy-and-water  in 
her  hand  (the  third  glass  that  stranger  had  called  for 
during  his  half-hour's  rest  in  the  hostelry),  quoth  the 
man  — 

"  The  taller  gentleman  yonder  is  surely  your  Squire,  is 
it  not  ?  but  who  is  the  shorter  and  younger  person  ?  '* 

The  landlady  put  forth  her  head. 

"  Oh  !  that  is  a  relation  of  the  Squire's  down  on  a  visit, 
Sir.  I  heard  coachman  say  that  the  Squire's  taken  to  him 
hugely  ;  and  they  do  think  at  the  hall  that  the  young  gen- 
tleman will  be  his  heir." 

"Aha  !  —  indeed  —  his  heir  ?  What  is  the  lad's  name  ? 
What  relation  can  he  be  to  Mr.  Darrell  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  relation  exactly,  Sir ;  but  he  is 
one  of  the  Haughtons,  and  they've  been  kin  to  the  Faw- 
ley  folks  time  out  of  mind." 

"  Haughton  !  —  aha  1  Thank  you,  ma'am.  Change, 
if  you  please." 

The  stranger  tossed  off  his  dram,  and  stretched  bis 
aand  for  his  change. 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  199 

"Beg  pardon,  Sir,  but  this  must  be  forring  money," 
said  the  hiudlady,  turning  a  five-franc  piece  on  her  palm 
with  suspicious  curiosity. 

"  Foreign  !  is  it  possible  ?  "  The  stranger  dived  again 
into  his  pocket,  and  apparently  with  some  difficulty  hunted 
out  half  a  crown. 

"  Sixpence  more,  if  you  please,  Sir ;  three  brandies, 
and  bread-and-cheese,  and  the  ale  too.   Sir." 

"  How  stupid  I  am  !  I  thought  that  French  coin  was 
a  five-shilling  piece.  I  fear  I  have  no  English  money 
about  me  but  this  half-crown ;  and  I  can't  ask  you  to 
trust  me,  as  you  don't  know  me." 

"  Oh,  Sir,  'tis  all  one  if  you  know  the  Squire.  You 
may  be  passing  this  way  again." 

"  I  shall  not  forget  ray  debt  when  I  do,  you  may  be 
sure,"  said  the  stranger  ;  and,  with  a  nod,  he  walked  away 
in  the  same  direction  as  Darrell  and  Lionel  had  already 
taken  —  through  a  turn-stile  by  a  public  path  that,  skirt- 
ing the  church-yard  and  the  neighboring  parsonage,  led 
along  a  corn-field  to  the  demesnes  of  Fawley. 

The  path  was  narrow,  the  corn  rising  on  either  side,  so 
that  two  persons  could  not  well  walk  abreast,  Lionel 
was  some  paces  in  advance,  Darrell  walking  slow.  The 
stranger  followed  at  a  distance  ;  once  or  twice  he  quick- 
ened his  pace,  as  if  resolved  to  overtake  Darrell ;  then, 
apparently,  his  mind  misgave  him,  and  he  again  fell  back. 

There  was  something  furtive  and  sinister  aljout  the 
man.  Little  could  be  seen  of  his  face,  for  he  wore  a  large 
hat  of  foreign  make,  slouched  deep  over  his  brow,  and 


200  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

his  lips  and  jaw  were  concealed  by  a  dark  and  full  mus- 
tache and  beard.  As  much  of  the  general  outline  of  the 
countenance  as  remained  distinguishable  was,  neverthe- 
less, decidedly  handsome ;  but  a  complexion  naturally 
rich  in  color,  seemed  to  have  gained  the  heated  look 
which  comes  with  the  earlier  habits  of  intemperance,  be- 
fore it  fades  into  the  leaden  hues  of  the  later. 

His  dress  bespoke  pretension  to  a  certain  rank  ;  but  its 
component  parts  were  strangely  ill-assorted,  out  of  date, 
and  out  of  repair  :  pearl-colored  trowsers,  with  silk  braids 
down  their  sides  ;  brodequins  to  match — Parisian  fashion 
three  years  back,  but  the  trowsers  shabby,  the  braiding 
discolored,  the  brodequins  in  holes.  The  coat  —  once  a 
black  evening-dress  coat — of  a  cut  a  year  or  two  anterior 
to  that  of  the  trowsers  ;•  satin  facings  —  cloth  napless, 
satin  stained.  Over  all,  a  sort  of  summer  travelling-cloak, 
or  rather  large  cape  of  a  waterproof  silk,  once  the  ex- 
treme mode  with  the  Lions  of  the  Chaussee  dfAntin  when- 
ever they  ventured  to  rove  to  Swiss  cantons  or  German 
spas ;  but  which,  from  a  certain  dainty  effeminacy  in  its 
shape  and  texture,  required  the  minutest  elegance  in  the 
general  costume  of  its  wearer  as  well  as  the  cleanliest 
purity  in  itself.  Worn  by  this  traveller,  and  well-nigh 
worn  out  too,  the  cape  became  a  finery,  mournful  as  a 
tattered  pennon  over  a  wreck. 

Yet  in  spite  of  this  dress,  however  unbecoming,  shabby, 
obsolete,  a  second  glance  could  scarcely  fail  to  note  the 
wearer  as  a  man  wonderfully  well  sharped  —  tall,  slender 
in  the  waist,  long  of  limb,  but  with  a  girth  of  chest  that 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  201 

showed  immense  power — one  of  those  rare  figures  that  a 
female  eye  would  admire  for  grace — a  recruiting  sergeant 
for  athletic  strength. 

But  still  the  man's  whole  bearing  and  aspect,  even  apart 
from  the  dismal  incongruities  of  his  attire,  which  gave 
him  the  air  of  a  beggared  spendthrift,  marred  the  favora- 
ble effect  that  physical  comeliness  in  itself  produces.  Dif- 
ficult to  describe  how  —  difficult  to  sa,y  why  —  but  there 
is  a  look  which  a  man  gets,  and  a  gait  which  he  contracts, 
when  the  rest  of  mankind  cut  him  ;  and  this  man  had  that 
look  and  that  gait. 

"  So,  so,"  muttered  the  stranger.  "  That  boy  his  heir  ! 
— so,  so.  How  can  I  get  to  speak  to  him  ?  In  his  own 
house  he  would  not  see  me :  it  must  be  as  now,  in  the 
open  air ;  but  how  catch  him  alone  ?  and  to  lurk  in  the 
inn,  in  his  own  village — perhaps  for  a  day — to  watch  an 
occasion  ;  impossible  !  Besides,  where  is  the  money  foi 
it  ?  Courage,  courage  !  "  He  quickened  his  pace,  pushed 
back  his  hat.  "  Courage  !  Why  not  now  ?  Now  or 
never  ! " 

While  the  man  thus  mutteringly  soliloquized,  Lionel 
had  reached  the  gate  which  opened  into  the  grounds  of 
Fawley,  just  in  the  rear  of  the  little  lake.  Over  the  gate 
he  swung  himself  lightly,  and,  turning  back  to  Darrell, 
cried,  "  Here  is  the  doe  waiting  to  welcome  you  ! " 

Just  as  Darrell,  scarcely  heeding  the  exclamation,  and 
with  his  musing  eyes  on  the  ground,  approached  the  gate, 
a  respectful  hand  opened  it  wide,  a  submissive  head  bowed 
low,  a  voice  artificially  soft  faltered  forth  words,  broken 


202  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

and  indistinct,  but  of  which  those  most  audible  were  — 
"  Pardon  me — something  to  communicate — important — • 
hear  me.-' 

Darrell  started — just  as  the  traveller  almost  touched 
him — started — recoiled,  as  one  on  whose  path  rises  a  wild 
beast.  His  bended  head  became  erect,  haughty,  indignant, 
defying ;  but  his  cheek  was  pale,  and  his  lip  quivered. 
"  You  here  !  You  in  England  —  at  Fawley  !  You  pre- 
sume to  accost  me!     You,  Sir,  you  — 

Lionel  just  caught  the  sound  of  the  voice  as  the  doe 
had  come  timidly  up  to  him.  He  turned  round  sharply, 
and  beheld  Darrell's  stern,  imperious  countenance,  on 
which,  stern  and  imperious  though  it  was,  a  hasty  glance 
could  discover,  at  once,  a  surprise,  that  almost  bordered 
upon  fear.  Of  the  stranger  still  holding  the  gate  he  saw 
but  the  back,  and  his  voice  he  did  not  hear,  though  by 
the  man's  gesture  he  was  evidently  replying.  Lionel  paused 
a  moment  irresolute  ;  but  as  the  man  continued  to  speak, 
he  saw  Darrell's  face  grow  paler  and  paler,  and  in  the 
impulse  of  a  vague  alarm  he  hastened  toward  him ;  but 
just  within  three  feet  of  the  spot,  Darrell  arrested  his 
steps. 

"  Go  home,  Lionel ;  this  person  would  speak  to  me  in 
private."  Then,  in  a  lower  tone,  he  said  to  the  stranger, 
''  Close  the  gate.  Sir ;  you  are  standing  upon  the  land  of 
Qiy  fathers.  If  you  would  speak  with  me,  this  way  ;  "  and 
brushing  through  the  corn,  Darrell  strode  toward  a  patch 
of  waste  land  that  adjoined  the  field  :  the  man  followed 
Dim,  and  both  passed  from  Lionel's  eyes.     The  doe  had 


WHAT     WILL     HE    DO     WITH    II?  203 

come  to  the  g-ate  to  greet  her  master ;  she  now  rested  lier 
nostrils  on  the  bar,  with  a  look  disappointed  and  plaintive. 

"Come,"  said  Lionel,  "come."  The  doe  would  not 
stir. 

So  the  boy  walked  on  alone,  nor  much  occupied  with 
what  had  just  passed.  "  Doubtless,"  thought  he,  "some 
person  in  the  neighborhood  upon  country  business." 

He  skirted  the  lake,  and  seated  himself  on  a  garden 
bench  near  the  house.  What  did  he  there  think  of?  — 
who  knows  ?  Perhaps  of  the  Great  World  ;  perhaps  of 
little  Sophy!  Time  fled  on-:  the  sun  was  receding  in  the 
west,  when  Darrell  hurried  past  him  without  speaking, 
and  entered  the  house. 

The  host  did  not  appear  at  dinner,  nor  all  that  evening. 
Mr.  Mills  made  an  excuse  —  Mr. Darrell  did  not  feel  very 
well. 

Fairthorn  had  Lionel  all  to  himself,  and  having  within 
the  last  few  days  reindulged  in  open  cordiality  to  the 
young  guest,  he  was  especially  communicative  that  even- 
ing. He  talked  much  on  Darrell,  and  with  all  the  affec- 
tion that,  in  spite  of  his  fear,  the  poor  flute-player  felt  for 
his  ungracious  patron.  He  told  many  anecdotes  of  the 
stern  man's  tender  kindness  to  all  that  came  within  his 
sphere.  He  told  also  anecdotes  more  striking  of  the  kind 
man's  sternness  where  some  obstinate  prejudice,  some 
ruling  passion,  made  him  "granite." 

"  liord,  my  dear  young  Sir,"  said  Fairthorn,  "be  his 
most  bitter  open  enemy,  and  fall  down  in  the  mire,  the 
first  hand  to  help  you  would  be  Guy  Darrell's ;  but  be  hia 


204  WHAl     WILL    H*E    DO    WITH    IT? 

professed  friend,  and  betray  him  to  the  worth  of  a  straw, 
and  never  try  to  see  his  face  again  if  you  are  wise  —  the 
most  forgiving  and  the  least  forgiving  of  human  beings. 
But  —  " 

The  study  door  noiselessly  opened,  and  Darrell's  voice 
called  out, 

"Fairthorn,  let  me  speak  with  you.^' 


CHAPTER  XY. 

Every  street,  has  two  sides,  the  shady  side  and  the  sunny.  When 
two  men  shake  hands  and  part,  mark  which  of  the  two  takes  the 
sunny  side;  he  will  be  the  younger  man  of  the  two. 

The  next  morning,  neither  Darrell  nor  Fairthorn 
appeared  at  breakfast ;  but  as  soon  as  Lionel  had  con- 
cluded that  meal,  Mr.  Mills  informed  him,  with  customary 
politeness,  that  Mr.  Darrell  wished  to  speak  with  him  in 
the  study.  Study,  across  the  threshold  of  which  Lionel 
had  never  yet  set  footstep  1  He  entered  it  now  with  a 
sentiment  of  mingled  curiosity  and  awe.  Nothing  in  it 
remarkable,  save  the  portrait  of  the  host's  father  over  the 
mantle-piece.  Books  strewed  tables,  chairs,  and  floors 
in  the  disorder  loved  by  habitual  students.  Near  the 
window  was  a  glass  bowl  containing  gold  fish,  and  close 
by,  in  its  cage,  a  singing-bird.  Darrell  might  exist  with- 
out companionship  in  the  human  species,  but  not  without 
something  which  he  protected  and  cherished  —  a  bird— . 
even  a  fish. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  205 

Darrell  looked  really  ill ;  his  keen  eye  was  almost  dim, 
and  the  lines  in  his  face  seemed  deeper.  But  he  spoke 
with  his  usual  calm  passionless  melody  of  voice. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  Lionel's  really  anxioua 
inquiry ;  "  I  am  ill.  Idle  persons  like  me  give  way  to 
illness  When  I  was  a  busy  man,  I  never  did  ;  and  then 
iUness  gave  way  to  me.  My  general  plans  are  thus,  if 
not  actually  altered,  at  least  hurried  to  their  consumma- 
tion sooner  than  I  expected.  Before  you  came  here,  I 
told  you  to  come  soon,  or  you  might  not  find  me.  I 
meant  to  go  abroad  this  summer ;  I  shall  now  start  at 
once.  I  need  the  change  of  scene  and  air.  You  will 
return  to  London  to-day." 

''To-day!     You  are  not  angry  with  me?" 

"Angry  !  boy  and  cousin  —  no  1 "  resumed  Darrell,  in  a 
tone  of  unusual  tenderness.  "Angry  —  fie!  But  since 
the  parting  must  be,  'tis  well  to  abridge  the  pain  of  long 
farewells.  You  must  wish,  too,  to  see  your  mother,  and 
thank  her  for  rearing  you  up  so  that  you  may  step  from 
poverty  into  ease  with  a  head  erect.  You  will  give  to 
Mrs.  Haughton  this  letter :  for  yourself,  your  inclinations 
Beera  to  tend  toward  the  array.  But  before  you  decide 
on  that  career,  I  should  like  you  to  see  something  more 
of  the  world.  Call  to-morrow  on  Colonel  Morley,  in 
Curzon  Street :  this  is  his  address.  He  will  receive  by 
to-day's  post  a  note  from  me,  requesting  him  to  advise 
you.  Follow  his  counsels  in  what  belongs  to  the  world. 
He  is  a  man  of  the  world  —  a  distant  connection  of  mine 
—  who  will  be  kind  to  you  for  my  sake.     Is  there  more 

L  — 18 


206  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

to  say  ?  Yes.  It  seems  an  ungracious  speech ;  but  I 
should  speak  it.  Consider  yourself  sure  from  me  of  an 
independent  income.  Never  let  idle  sycophants  lead  you 
into  extravagance,  by  telling  you  that  you  will  have  more. 
But  indulge  not  the  expectation,  however  plausible,  that 
you  will  be  my  heir." 

"  Mr.  Darrell  —  oh,  Sir  —  " 

"  Hush — the  expectation  would  be  reasonable  ;  but  1 
am  a  strange  being.  I  might  marry  again  —  have  heirs 
of  my  own.  Eh,  Sir  —  why  not  ?  "  Darrell  spoke  these 
last  words  almost  fiercely,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  Lionel  as 
he  repeated  —  "  why  not  ?  "  But  seeing  that  the  boy's 
face  evinced  no  surprise,  the  expression  of  his  own 
relaxed,  and  he  continued  calmly  —  "  Eno' ;  what  I  have 
thus  rudely  said  was  kindly  meant.  It  is  a  treason  to  a 
young  man  to  let  him  count  on  a  fortune  which  at  last 
is  left  away  from  him.  Now,  Lionel,  go  ;  enjoy  your 
spring  of  life  !  Go,  hopeful  and  light-hearted.  If  sorrow 
reach  you,  battle  with  it ;  if  error  mislead  you,  come  fear- 
lessly to  me  for  counsel.  Why,  boy — what  is  this  — 
tears?     Tut,  tut." 

"  It  i.';  your  goodness,"  faltered  Lionel.  "  I  cannot  help 
it.     And  is  there  nothing  I  can  do  for  you  in  return  ?" 

"  Yes,  much.  Keep  your  name  free  from  stain,  and 
your  heart  open  to  such  noble  emotions  as  awaken  tear>« 
like  those.  Ah,  by-the-by,  I  heard  from  my  lawyer  to- 
day about  your  poor  little  proleg^.  Not  found  yet,  but 
he  seems  sanguine  of  quick  success.  You  shall  know  the 
moment  I  hear  more." 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  20? 

**  You  will  write  to  me  then,  Sir,  and  I  may  write  to 
you  ?" 

"As  often  as  you  please.    Always  dire(/t  to  me  here." 

"Shall  you  be  long  abroad?" 

Darrell's  brows  met.  "I  don't  know,"  said  he,  curtly. 
"Adieu." 

He  opened  the  door  as  he  spoke. 

Lionel  looked  at  him  with  wistful  yearning,  filial  affec- 
tion, through  his  swimming  eyes.  "  God  bless  you,  Sir," 
he  murmured  simply,  and  passed  away. 

"  That  blessing  should  have  come  from  me  !  "  said  Dar- 
rell  to  himself,  as  he  turned  back,  and  stood  on  his  soli- 
tary hearth.  "  But  they  on  whose  heads  I  once  poured 
a  blessing,  where  are  they  —  where?  And  that  man's 
tale,  reviving  the  audacious  fable  which  the  other,  and  I 
verily  believe  the  less  guilty  knave  of  the  two,  sought  to 
palm  on  me  years  ago  !  Stop  ;  let  me  weigh  well  what 
he  said.  If  it  were  true  ;  if  it  were  true  1  01 ,  shame, 
shame  ! " 

Folding  his  arms  tightly  on  his  breast,  Darrt-'ll  paced 
the  room  with  slow  measured  strides,  ponderii  g  deeply. 
He  was,  indeed,  seeking  to  suppress  feeling,  and  to  exer- 
cise only  judgment ;  and  his  reasoning  process  seemed  at 
length  fully  to  satisfy  him,  for  his  couutenanc-  gradually 
clea-ed,  and  a  triumphant  smile  passed  across  it.     "A  lie 

—  certainly  a  palpable  and  gross  lie  ;  lie  it  mjj.t  and  shall 
be.  Never  will  I  accept  it  as  truth.  Fathei  "  (looking 
full  at  the  portrait  over  the  mantle-shelf),  "father,  fear  not 

—  never  —  never  I  " 


BOOK    THIRD. 


CHAPTER   I. 

Certes,  the  Lizard  is  a  shy  and  timorous  creature.  He  runs  into 
chinks  and  crannies  if  you  come  too  near  to  him.  and  sheds  his 
very  tail  for  fear,  if  you  catch  it  by  the  tip.  He  has  not  hia 
being  in  good  society  —  no  one  cages  him,  no  one  pets.  He  is 
an  idle  vagrant.  But  when  he  steals  through  the  green  herbage, 
and  basks  unmolested  in  the  sun,  he  crowds  perhaps  as  much 
enjoyment  into  one  summer  hour  as  a  parrot,  however  pampered 
and  erudite,  spreads  over  a  whole  drawing-room  life  spent  in 
saying,  "  How  d'ye  do?"  and  "Pretty  Poll." 

On  tbat  dull  and  sombre  summer  morning  in  which  the 
grandfather  and  grandchild  departed  from  the  friendly 
roof  of  Mr.  Merle,  very  dull  and  very  sombre  were  the 
thoughts  of  little  Sophy.  She  walked  slowly  behind  the 
gray  cripple  who  had  need  to  lean  so  heavily  on  his  staff, 
and  her  eye  had  not  even  a  smile  for  the  golden  butter- 
cups that  glittered  on  dewy  meads  alongside  the  barren 
road. 

Thus  .had  they  proceeded  apart  and  silent  till  they  had 
passed  the  second  milestone.  There,  Waife,  rousing  from 
his  own  reveries,  which  were  perhaps  yet  more  dreary 
than  those  of  the  dejected  child,  halted  abruptly,  passed 

(208) 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  209 

his  hand  once  or  twice  rapidly  over  his  forehead,  and 
turning  round  to  Sophy,  looked  into  her  face  with  great 
kindness  as  she  came  slowly  to  his  side. 

"  You  are  sad,  little  one  ?  "  said  he. 

"Yery  sad,  Grandy." 

"And  displeased  with  me  ?  Yes,  displeased  that  I  have 
taken  you  suddenly  away  from  the  pretty  young  gentleman 
who  was  so  kind  to  you,  without  encouraging  the  chance 
that  you  were  to  meet  with  him  again." 

"  It  was  not  like  you,  Grandy,"  answered  Sophy  ;  and 
her  under-lip  slightly  pouted,  while  the  big  tears  swelled 
to  her  eye. 

"True,"  said  the  vagabond;  "anything  resembling 
common-sense  is  not  like  me.  But  don't  you  think  that 
I  did  what  I  felt  was  best  for  you  ?  Must  I  not  have  some 
good  cause  for  it,  whenever  I  have  the  heart  deliberately 
to  vex  you  ?  " 

Sophy  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it,  but  she  could  not 
trust  herself  to  speak,  for  she  felt  that  at  such  effort  she 
would  have  burst  out  into  hearty  crying.  Then  Waife 
proceeded  to  utter  many  of  those  wise  sayings,  old  as  the 
hills,  and  as  high  above  our  sorrows  as  hills  are  from  the 
valley  in  which  we  walk.  He  said  how  foolish  it  was  to 
unsettle  the  mind  by  preposterous  fancies  and  impossible 
hopes.  The  pretty  young  gentleman  could  never  be  any 
thing  to  her,  nor  she  to  the  pretty  young  gentleman.  It 
might  be  very  well  for  the  pretty  young  gentleman  to 
promise  to  correspond  with  her,  but  as  soon  as  he  returned 
to  his  friends  he  would  have  other  things  to  think  of,  and 
18*  o 


210  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

she  would  soon  be  forgotten ;  while  she,  on  the  contrary, 
would  be  thinking  of  him,  and  the  Thames,  and  the 
butterflies,  and  find  hard  life  still  more  irksome.  Of  all 
this,  and  mucli  more,  in  the  general  way  of  consolers  who 
set  out  on  the  principle  that  grief  is  a  matter  of  logic, 
did  Gentleman  Waife  deliver  himself  with  a  vigor  of 
ratiocination  which  admitted  of  no  reply,  and  conveyed 
not  a  particle  of  comfort.  And  feeling  this,  that  great 
Actor  —  not  that  he  was  acting  then  —  suddenly  stopped, 
clasped  the  child  in  his  arms,  and  murmured  in  broken 
accents — "But  if  I  see  you  thus  cast  down,  I  shall  have 
no  strength  left  to  hobble  on  through  the  world  ;  and  the 
sooner  I  lie  down,  and  the  dust  is  shoveled  over  me,  why, 
the  better  for  you ;  for  it  seems  that  Heaven  sends  you 
friends,  and  I  tear  you  from  them." 

And  then  Sophy  fairly  gave  way  to  her  sobs ;  she 
twined  her  little  arms  round  the  old  man's  neck  convul- 
sively, kissed  his  rough  face  with  imploring  pathetic  fond- 
ness, and  forced  out  through  her  tears,  "  Don't  talk  so  I 
I've  been  ungrateful  and  wicked.  I  don't  care  for  any 
one  but  my  own  dear,  dear  Grandy." 

After  this  little  scene  they  both  composed  themselves, 
and  felt  much  lighter  of  heart.  They  pursued  their 
journey  —  no  longer  apart,  but  side  by  side,  and  the  old 
man  leaning,  though  very  lightly,  on  the  child's  arm. 
But  there  was  no  immediate  reaction  from  gloom  to 
gayety.  Waife  began  talking  in  softened  under-tones, 
and  vaguely,  of  his  own  past  afflictions ;  and  partial  as 
was  the  reference,  how  vast  did  the  old  man's  sorrows 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  211 

seem  beside  llie  child's  regrets ;  aud  yet  he  commented 
on  tliem  as  if  rather  in  pitying  her  state  than  grieving 
for  his  own. 

"Ah  I  at  your  age,  my  darling,  I  had  not  your  troubles 
and  hardships.  I  had  not  to  trudge  these  dusty  roads  on 
foot  with  a  broken-down,  good-for-nothing  scatterling.  1 
trod  rich  carpets,  and  slept  under  silken  curtains.  I  took 
the  air  in  gay  carriages — I  such  a  scape-grace — and  you, 
little  child  —  you  so  good  1  All  gone!  all  melted  away 
from  me,  and  not  able  now  to  be  sure  that  you  will  have 
a  crust  of  bread  this  day  week." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  shall  have  bread,  and  you,  too,  Grandy  1 '' 
cried  Sophy,  with  cheerful  voice.  "  It  was  you  who 
taught  me  to  pray  to  God,  and  said  that  in  all  your 
troubles  God  had  been  good  to  you  ;  and  He  has  been  so 
good  to  me  since  I  prayed  to  Him :  for  I  have  no  dread- 
ful Mrs.  Crane  to  beat  me  now,  and  say  things  more  hard 
to  bear  than  beating  —  and  you  have  taken  me  to  your- 
self. How  I  prayed  for  that !  And  I  take  care  of  you, 
too,  Grandy,  don't  I  ?  I  prayed  for  that,  too,;  and  as  to 
carriages,"  added  Sophy,  with  superb  air,  "I  don't  care 
if  I  am  never  in  a  carriage  as  long  as  I  live  ;  and  you 
know  I  have  been  in  a  van,  v/hich  is  bigger  than  a  car- 
riage, and  I  didn^t  like  that  at  all.  But  how  came  people 
to  behave  so  ill  to  you,  Grandy?" 

"  I  never  said  people  behaved  ill  to  me,  Sophy." 

"  Did  not  they  take  away  the  carpets  and  silk  curtains, 
aud  all  the  fine  things  you  had  as  a  little  boy  ?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly,"  replied  Waife,  with  a  puzzled 


212  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

look,  'that  people  actually  took  them  away  —  but  they 
melted  away.'  However,  I  had  much  still  to  be  thankful 
for  —  I  was  so  strong,  and  had  such  high  spirits,  Sophy, 
and  found  people  not  behaving  ill  to  me — quite  the  con- 
trary— so  kind.  I  found  no  Crane  (she  monster)  as  you 
did,  my  little  angel.  Such  prospects  before  me,  if  I  had 
walked  straight  toward  them  I  But  I  followed  my  own 
fancy,  which  led  me  zigzag  ;  and  now  that  I  would  stray 
back  into  the  high-road,  you  see  before  you  a  man  whom 
a  Justice  of  the  Peace  could  send  to  the  treadmill  for  pre- 
suming to  live  without  a  livelihood.'*    • 

Sophy.  "  Not  without  a  livelihood  ?  the  what  did  you 
call  it !  independent  income  —  that  is,  the  Three  Pounds, 
Grandy  ?  " 

Wajfe  (admiringly).  "  Sensible  child  !  That  is  true. 
Yes,  Heaven  is  very  good  to  me  still.  Ah  !  what  signi- 
fies fortune  ?  How  happy  I  was  with  my  dear  Lizzy,  and 
yet  no  two  persons  could  live  more  from  hand  to  mouth." 

Sophy  (rather  jealously).   "  Lizzy  ?  " 

Waife  (with  moistened  eyes,  and  looking  down).  "  My 
wife.  She  was  only  spared  to  me  two  years — such  sunny 
years  I  And  how  grateful  I  ought  to  be  that  she  did  not 
live  longer.  She  was  saved  —  such  —  such  —  such  shame 
and  misery  I  "     A  long  pause. 

Waife  resumed,  with  a  rush  from  memory,  as  if  pluck- 
ing himself  from  the  claws  of  a  harpy  —  "What's  the 
good  of  looking  back  I  A  man's  gone  self  is  a  dead  thing. 
It  is  not  I  —  now  tramping  this  road,  with  you  to  lean 
upon — whom  I  see  when  I  would  turn  to  look  behind  on 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  213 

that  which  I  once  was  —  it  is  another  being,  defunct  and 
buried ;  and  when  I  say  to  myself,  *  That  being  did  so 
and  so,'  it  is  like  reading  an  epitaph  on  a  tombstone.  So, 
at  last,  solitary  and  hopeless,  I  came  ba,ck  to  my  own 
land;  and  I  found  you  —  a  blessing  greater  than  I  had 
ever  dared  to  count  on.  And  how  was  I  to  maintain 
you,  and  take  you  from  that  long-nosed  alligator  called 
Crane,  and  put  you  in  womanly,  gentle  hands,  for  I  never 
thought  then  of  subjecting  you  to  all  you  have  since  un- 
dergone with  me.  I  who  did  not  know  one  useful  thing 
in  life  by  which  a  man  can  turn  a  penny.  And  then,  as 
I  was  all  alone  in  a  village  ale-house,  on  my  way  back 
from — it  does  not  signify  from  what,  or  from  whence,  but 
I  was  disappointed  and  despairing  —  Providence  merci- 
fully threw  in  my  way — Mr.  Rugge — and  ordained  me  to 
be  of  great  service  to  that  ruffian  —  and  that  ruffian  of 
great  use  to  me." 

Sophy.  "Ah  !  how  was  that  ?  " 

Waife.  "  It  was  Fair-time  in  the  village  wherein  I 
stopped,  and  Rugge's  principal  actor  was  taken  off  by 
delirium  tremens,  which  is  Latin  for  a  disease  common 
to  men  who  eat  little  and  drink  much.  Rugge  came  into 
the  ale-house,  bemoaning  his  loss.  A  bright  thought 
struck  me.  Once  in  my  day  I  had  been  used  to  acting. 
I  offered  to  try  my  chance  on  Mr.  Rugge's  stage ;  he 
caught  at  me  —  I  at  him.  I  succeeded;  we  came  to 
terms,  and  my  little  Sophy  was  thus  taken  from  that 
ringleted  crocodile,  and  placed  with  Christian  females 
who  wore  caps  and  read  their  Bible.  Is  not  Heaven 
good  to  'js,  Sophy — and  to  me,  too — me,  such  a  scamp  ?" 


214  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT*/ 

''And  you  did  all  that  —  suffered  all  that  for  me  ?** 
"  Suffered — but  I  liked  it.     And,  besides,  I  must  have 
done  something  ;  and  there  were  reasons — in  short,  I  was 
quite  happy — no,  not  actually  happy,  but  comfortable  and 
merry.     Providence   gives  thick  hides  to   animals  that 
must  exist  in  cold  climates ;  and  to  the  man  whom  it  re- 
serves  for   sorrow.   Providence    gives    a   coarse,   jovial 
temper.     Then,  when  by  a  mercy  I  was  saved  from  what 
I   most   disliked   and   dreaded,   and  never  would  have 
thought  of  but  that  I  fancied  it  might  be  a  help  to  you 
— I  mean  the  London  stage — and  had  that  bad  accident 
on  the  railway,  how  did  it  end  ?  Oh  !  in  saving  you  (and 
Waife  closed  his  eyes  and  shuddered)  —  in  saving  your 
destiny  from  what  might  be  much  worse  for  you,  body 
and  soul,  than  the  worst  that  has  happened  to  you  with 
me.     And  so  we  have  been  thrown  together  ;  and  so  you 
have  supported  me ;  and  so,  when  we  could  exist  without 
Mr.  Rugge,  Providence  got  rid  of  him  for  us.     And  so 
we  are  now  walking  along  the  high-road ;  and  through 
yonder  trees  you  can  catch  a  peep  of  the  roof  under  which 
we  are  about  to  rest  for  a  while  ;  and  there  you  will  learn 
what  I  have  done  with  the  Three  Pounds  I " 
**It  is  not  the  Spotted  Boy,  Grandy?" 
*'  No,"  said  Waife,  sighing ;    "  the  Spotted  Boy  is  a 
handsome  income ;  but  let  us  only  trust  in  Providence, 
and  I  should  not  wonder  if  our  new  acquisition  proved  a 
monstrous  —  " 
"  Monstrous  I " 
"  Piece  of  good  fortune." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  215 


CHAPTER    II. 

The  Investment  revealed. 

Gkntleman  Waife  passed  through  a  turnstile,  down  a 
narrow  lane,  and  reached  a  solitary  cottage.  He  knocked 
at  the  door ;  an  old  peasant  woman  opened  it,  and 
dropped  him  a  civil  courtesy.  "  Indeed,  Sir,  I  am  glad 
you  are  come.     I'se  most  afeard  he  be  dead." 

"  Dead  ! "  exclaimed  Waife.  "  Oh,  Sophy,  if  he  should 
be  dead  I " 

"Who?" 

Waife  did  not  heed  the  question.  "  What  makes  you 
think  him  dead  ?  "  said  he,  fumbling  in  his  pockets,  from 
vhich  he  at  last  produced  a  key.  "  You  have  not  been 
iisobeying  my  strict  orders,  and  tampering  with  the 
loor  ? " 

"  Lor,  love  ye,  no,  Sir.  But  he  made  such  a  noise  a 
fust  —  awful !  And  now  he's  as  still  as  a  corpse.  And 
I  did  peep  through  the  keyhole,  and  he  was  stretched 
stark." 

"  Hunger,  perhaps,"  said  the  Comedian  ;  "'tis  his  way 
when  he  has  been  kept  fasting  much  over  his  usual  hours. 
Follow  me,  Sophy."  He  put  aside  the  woman,  entered 
the  sanded  kitchen,  ascended  a  stair  that  led  from  it ;  and 
Sophy  following,  stopped  at  a  door  and  listened :  not  a 
sound.     Timidly  he  unlocked  the  portals  and  crept  in. 


216  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

when,  suddenly,  such  a  rush  —  such  a  spring,  and  a  mass 
of  something  vehement  yet  soft,  dingy  yet  whitish,  whirled 
past  the  Actor,  and  came  pounce  against  Sophy,  who 
therewith  uttered  a  shriek.  "  Stop  him,  stop  him,  for 
Heaven's  sake  !  "  cried  Waife.  "  Shut  the  door  below  r— 
seize  him  ! "  Down  stairs,  however,  w^ent  the  mass,  and 
down  stairs  after  it  hobbled  Waife,  returning  in  a  few 
moments  with  the  recaptured  and  mysterious  fugitive. 
"There,"  he  cried,  triumphantly,  to  Sophy,  who,  stand- 
ing against  the  wall  with  her  face  buried  in  her  frock, 
long  refused  to  look  up  —  "  there  —  tame  as  a  lamb,  and 
knows  me.  See" — he  seated  himself  on  the  floor,  and 
Sophy,  hesitatingly  opening  her  eyes,  beheld  gravely 
gazing  at  her  from  under  a  profusion  of  shaggy  locks  an 
enormous  — 


CHAPTER  III. 

Denouement. 


CHAPTER  lY. 

Zoology  in  connection  with  History. 

*' Walk  to  that  young  lady,  Sir  —  walk,  I  say."  The 
poodle  slowly  rose  on  his  hind-legs,  and,  with  an  aspect 
inexpressibly  solemn,  advanced  toward  Sophy,  who  hastily 
receded  into  the  room  in  which  the  creature  had  been 
confined. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  217 

"Make  a  bow  —  no  —  a  bow,  Sir;  that  is  right;  you 
can  shake  hands  another  time.  Run  down,  Sophy,  and 
ask  for  his  dinner." 

"  Yes  —  that  I  will ;  "  and  Sophy  flew  down  the  stairs 

The  dog,  still  on  his  hind-legs,  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  flcor,  dignified,  but  evidently  expectant. 

"  That  will  do  ;  lie  down  and  die.  Die  this  moment, 
Sir."  The  dog  stretched  himself  out,  closed  his  eyes, 
and  to  all  appearance  gave  up  the  ghost.  "  A  most 
splendid  investment,"  said  Waife,  with  enthusiasm  ;  "  and, 
upon  the  whole,  dog-cheap.  Ho  !  you  are  not  to  bring 
up  his  dinner ;  it  is  not  you  who  are  to  make  friends  with 
the  dog  ;  it  is  my  little  girl ;  send  her  up  ;  Sophy,  Sophy." 

"  She  be  fritted.  Sir,"  said  the  woman,  holding  a  plate 
of  canine  comestibles;  "but  lauk.  Sir;  ben't  he  really 
dead  ?  " 

"Sophy,  Sophy." 

"Please  let  me  stay  here,  Grandy,"  said  Sophy's  voice 
from  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"  Nonsense  I  it  is  sixteen  hours  since  he  has  had  a 
morsel  to  eat.  And  he  will  never  bite  the  hand  that 
feeds  him  now.     Come  up,  I  say." 

Sophy  slowly  reascended,  and  Waife,  summoning  the 
poodle  to  life,  insisted  upon  the  child's  feeding  him. 
And  indeed,  when  that  act  of  charity  was  performed,  the 
aog  evinced  his  gratitude  by  a  series  of  unsophisticated 
bounds  and  waggings  of  the  tail,  which  gradually  removed 
Sophy's  apprehensions,  and  laid  the  foundation  for  that 

1.  — 19 


218  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

intimate  friendship,  which  is  the  natural  relation  between 
child  antl  dog. 

"  And  how  did  you  come  by  him  ? "  asked  Sophy ; 
"and  is  this  really  the  —  the  investment  ?  " 

"  Shut  the  door  carefully,  but  see  first  that  the  woman 
is  not  listening.  Lie  down,  Sir,  there,  at  the  feet  of  the 
young  lady.  Good  dog.  How  did  I  come  by  him  ?  I 
will  tell  you.  The  first  day  we  arrived  at  the  village 
which  we  have  just  left,  I  went  into  the  tobacconist's. 
While  I  was  buying  my  ounce  of  canaster,  that  dog  en- 
tered the  shop.  In  his  mouth  was  a  sixpence  wrapped  in 
paper.  He  lifted  himself  on  his  hind-legs,  and  laid  his 
missive  on  the  counter.  The  shopwoman  —  you  know 
her,  Mrs.  Traill  —  unfolded  the  paper  and  read  the  order. 
'  Clever  dog  that,  Sir,'  said  she.  'To  fetch  and  carry  ?' 
said  T,  indifferently.  'More  than  that.  Sir;  you  shall 
see.  The  order  is  for  two-penn'orth  of  snuff.  The  dog 
knows  he  is  to  take  back  fourpence.  I  will  give  him  a 
penny  short.'  So  she  took  the  sixpence  and  gave  the 
dog  threepence  out  of  it.  The  dog  shook  his  head  and 
looked  gravely  into  her  face.  '  That's  all  you'll  get,'  said 
she.  The  dog  shook  his  head  again,  and  tapped  his  paw 
cnce  on  the  counter,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  I  am  not  to  be 
done  —  a  penny  more,  if  you  please.'  '  If  you  won't  take 
that,  you  shall  have  nothing,'  said  Mrs.  Traill,  and  she 
took  back  the  threepence." 

"  Dear  I  and  what  did  the  dog  do  then — snarl  or  bite  ?  " 

"  Not  so  ;  he  knew  he  was  in  his  rights,  and  did  not  lower 
himself  by  showing  bad  temper.     The  dog  looked  quietly 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  219 

round,  saw  a  basket  which  contained  two  or  three  pounds 
of  candles  lying  in  a  corner  for  the  shopboy  to  take  to 
some  customer;  took  up  the  basket  in  his  mouth,  and 
turned  tail,  as  much  as  to  say,  '  Tit  for  tat  then.'  He 
understood,  you  see,  what  is  called  the  'law  of  reprisals.' 
'  Come  back  this  moment,'  cried  Mrs.  Traill.  The  dog 
walked  out  of  the  shop ;  then  she  ran  after  him,  and 
counted  the  fourpence  before  him,  on  which  he  dropped 
the  basket,  picked  up  the  right  change,  and  went  off  de- 
murely. '  To  whom  does  that  poodle  belong  ? '  said  I. 
'To  a  poor  drunken  man,'  said  Mrs.  Traill;  'I  wish  it 
was  in  better  hands.'  '  So  do  I,  ma'am,'  answered  I.  '  Did 
he  teach  it  ? '  '  No,  it  was  taught  by  his  brother,  who  was 
an  old  soldier,  and  died  in  his  house  two  weeks  ago.  It 
knows  a  great  many  tricks,  and  is  quite  young.  It  might 
make  a  fortune  as  a  show.  Sir.'  So  I  was  thinking.  I 
inquired  the  owner's  address,  called  on  him,  and  found 
him  disposed  to  sell  the  dog.  But  he  asked  £3,  a  sum 
that  seemed  out  of  the  question  then.  Still  I  kept  the 
dog  in  my  eye  ;  called  every  day  to  make  friends  with  it, 
and  ascertain  its  capacities.  And  at  last,  thanks  to  you, 
Sophy,  I  bought  the  dog  ;  and  what  is  more,  as  soon  as  I 
had  two  golden  sovereigns  to  show,  I  got  him  for  that 
Bum,  and  we  have  still  £1  left  (besides  small  savings  from 
our  lost  salaries)  to  go  to  the  completion  of  his  education, 
and  the  advertisement  of  his  merits.  I  kept  this  a  secret 
from  Merle — from  all.  I  would  not  even  let  the  drunken 
owner  know  where  I  took  the  dog  to  yesterday.    I  brought 


220  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

it  here,  where,  I  learned  in  the  village,  there  were  two 
rooms  to  let  —  locked  it  up  —  and  my  story  is  told  " 

"But  why  keep  it  such  a  secret." 

"Because  I  don't  want  Rugge  to  trace  us.  He  might 
do  one  a  mischief ;  because  I  have  a  grand  project  of 
genteel  position  and  high  prices  for  the  exhibition  of  that 
dog.  And  why  should  it  be  known  where  we  come  from, 
or  what  we  were  ?  And  because,  if  the  owner  knew  where 
to  find  the  dog,  he  might  decoy  it  back  from  us.  Luckily, 
he  had  not  made  the  dog  so  fond  of  him  but  what,  unless 
it  be  decoyed,  it  will  accustom  itself  to  us.  And  now  I 
propose  that  we  should  ptay  a  week  or  so  here,  and  devote 
ourselves  exclusively  to  developing  the  native  powers  of 
this  gifted  creature.     Get  out  the  dominoes." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  " 

"Ha!  that  is  the  first  consideration.  What  shall  be 
his  name  ?  " 

"  Has  not  he  one  already  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  trivial  and  unattractive  —  Mop  I  In  private 
life  it  might  pass.  But  in  public  life  —  give  a  dog  a  bad 
name,  and  hang  him.     Mop,  indeed  ! " 

Therewith  Mop,  considering  himself  appealed  to,  rose 
and  stretched  himself. 

"  Right,"  said  Gentleman  Waife;  "  stretch  yourself ;  yon 
decidedly  require  it." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  22^* 


CHAPTER   Y. 

Mop  becomes  a  personage.  Much  thought  is  bestowed  on  the  ver- 
bal dignities,  without  which  a  Personage  would  become  a  Mop, 
The  importance  of  names  is  apparent  in  all  history.  If  Augustus 
had  called  himself  king,  Rome  would  have  risen  against  him  as  a 
Tarquin ;  so  he  remained  a  simple  equestrian,  and  modestly  called 
himself  Imperator.  Mop  chooses  his  own  title  in  a  most  myste- 
rious manner,  and  ceases  to  be  Mop. 

"  The  first  noticeable  defect  in  your  name  of  Mop," 
said  Gentleman  Waife,  "  is,  as  you  yourself  denote,  the 
want  of  elongation.  Monosyllables  are  not  imposing,  and 
in  striking  compositions  their  meaning  is  elevated  by 
periphrasis ;  that  is  to  say,  Sophy,  that  what  before  was 
a  short  truth,  an  elegant  author  elaborates  into  a  long 
stretch." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Sophy,  thoughtfully  ;  "  I  don't  think 
the  name  of  Mop  would  draw  I  Still  he  is  very  like  a 
Mop." 

"  For  that  reason  the  name  degrades  him  the  more, 
and  lowers  him  from  an  intellectual  phenomenon  to  a 
physical  attribute,  which  is  vulgar.  I  hope  that  that  dog 
will  enable  us  to  rise  in  the  Scale  of  Being.  For  whereas 
we  in  acting  could  only  command  a  threepenny  audience 
— reserved  seats  a  shilling — he  may  aspire  to  half-crowns 
and  dress -boxes,  that  is,  if  we  can  hit  on  a  name  which 
inspires  respect.  Now,  although  the  dog  is  big,  it  is  not 
19* 


222  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

by  his  size  that  he  is  to  become  famous,  or  we  might  call 
him  Hercules  or  Goliah ;  neither  is  it  by  his  beauty,  or 
Adonis  would  not  be  unsuitable.  It  is  by  his  superior 
sagacity  and  wisdom.  And  there  I  am  puzzled  to  find 
his  prototype  among  mortals ;  for,  perhaps,  it  may  be 
my  ignorance  of  history  — " 

"  You  ignorant,  indeed,  grandfather  !  " 

"  But  considering  the  innumerable  millions  who  have 
lived  on  the  earth,  it  is  astonishing  how  few  I  can  call  to 
mind  who  have  left  behind  them  a  proverbial  renown  for 
wisdom.  There  is,  indeed,  Solomon,  but  he  fell  off  at  the 
last ;  and  as  he  belongs  to  sacred  history,  we  must  not 
take  a  liberty  with  his  name.  Who  is  there  very,  very, 
very  wise  besides  Solomon  ?  Think,  Sophy  —  profane 
history." 

Sophy  (after  a  musing  pause).    "Puss  in  Boots." 

"  Well,  he  was  wise  ;  but  then  he  was  not  human  ;  he 
was  a  cat.  Ha  !  Socrates.  Shall  we  call  him  Socrates, 
Socrates,  Socrates  ? " 

Sophy.  ''Socrates,  Socrates." 

Mop  yawned. 

Waife.  "He  don't  take  to  Socrates  —  prosy!" 

Sophy.  "Ah,  Mr.  Merle's  book  about  the  Brazen  Head, 
Friar  Bacon!     He  must  have  been  very  wise." 

Waife.  "  Not  bad  ;  mysterious,  but  not  recondite ; 
historical,  yet  familiar.  What  does  Mop  say  to  it  ?  Friar, 
Friar,  Friar  Bacon,   Sir  —  Friar." 

Sophy  (coaxingly).   "Friar." 

Mop,  evidently  conceiving  that  appeal  is  laade  to  some 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  2*^S 

other  personage,  canine  or  human,  not  present  rouses 
up,  walks  to  the  door,  smells  at  the  chink,  returns,  snakes 
his  head,  and  rests  on  his  haunches,  eyeing  his  two  friends 
Buperciliously. 

Sophy.  "  He  does  not  take  to  that  name." 

Waife.  "  He  has  his  reasons  for  it ;  and,  indeed,  tliere 
are  many  worthy  persons  who  disapprove  of  any  thing 
that  savors  of  magical  practices.  Mop  intimates  that, 
on  entering  public  life,  one  should  beware  of  ofi'ending 
the  respectable  prejudices  of  a  class." 

Mr.  Waife  then,  once  more  resorting  to  the  recesses 
of  scholastic  memory,  plucked  therefrom,  somewhat  by 
the  head  and  shoulders,  sundry  names  reverenced  in  a 
by-gone  age.  He  thought  of  the  seven  wise  men  of 
Greece,  but  could  only  recall  the  nomenclature  of  two  out 
of  the  seven  —  a  sad  proof  of  the  distinction  between 
collegiate  fame  and  popular  renown.  He  called  Tliales  ; 
he  called  Bion.  Mop  made  no  response.  "  Wonderful 
intelligence  !  "  said  Waife  ;  "  he  knows  that  Thales  and 
Bion  would  not  draw! — obsolete." 

Mop  was  equally  mute  to  Aristotle.  He  pricked  up 
his  ears  at  Plato,  perhaps  because  the  sound  was  not 
wholly  dissimilar  from  that  of  Ponto  —  a  name  of  which 
he  might  liave  had  vague  reminiscences.  The  Romans  not 
having  cultivated  an  original  philosophy,  though  they 
eo'itrived  to  produce  great  men  without  it,  Waife  passed 
by  that  perished  people.  He  crossed  to  China,  and  tried 
Confucius.  Mop  had  evidently  never  heard  of  him.  "  I 
am  at  the  end  of  my  list,  so  far  as  the  wise  men  are  con- 


224  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

cerned,"  said  Waife,  wiping  his  forehead.  "  If  Mop  were 
to  distinguish  himself  by  valor,  one  would  find  heroes  by 
the  dozen  —  Achilles,  and  Hector,  and  Julius  Caesar,  and 
Pompey,  and  Bonaparte,  and  Alexander  the  Great,  and 
the  Duke  of  Marlborough.  Or,  if  he  wrote  poetry,  we 
could  fit  him  to  a  hair.  But  wise  men  certainly  are 
scarce,  and  when  one  has  hit  on  a  wise  man's  name,  it  is 
so  little  known  to  the  vulgar  that  it  would  carry  no  more 
weight  with  it  than  Spot  or  Toby.  But  necessarily  some 
name  the  dog  must  have,  and  take  to,  sympathetically." 

Sophy  meanwhile  had  extracted  the  dominoes  from 
Waife's  bundle,  and  with  the  dominoes  and  alphabet  and  a 
multiplication-table  in  printed  capitals.  As  the  Comedian's 
one  eye  rested  upon  the  last,  he  exclaimed,  "But  after 
all,  Mop's  great  strength  will  probably  be  in  arithmetic, 
and  the  science  of  numbers  is  the  root  of  all  wisdom. 
Besides,  every  man,  high  and  low,  wants  to  make  a  fortune, 
and  associations  connected  with  addition  and  multiplica- 
tion are  always  pleasing.  Who,  then,  is  the  sage  at 
computation  most  universally  known  ?  Unquestionably 
Cocker!  He  must  take  to  that —  Cocker,  Cocker  (com- 
mandingly),  C-o-c-k-e-r,"  with  persuasive  sweetness. 

Mop  looked  puzzled  ;  he  put  his  head  first  on  one  side, 
then  the  other. 

SopiiY  (with  mellifluous  endearment).  "  Cocker,  good 
Cocker:  Cocker  dear." 

Both.  "  Cocker,  Cocker,  Cocker  ! " 

Excited  and  bewildered,  Mop  put  up  his  head,  and 
gave  vent  to  his  perplexities  in  a  long  and  lugubrious 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  225 

howl,  to  which  certainly  none  who  heard  it  could  have 
desired  addition  or  multiplication. 

"  Stop  this  instant,  Sir — stop  ;  I  shoot  you  I  You  aro 
dead  —  down  I  "  Waife  adjusted  his  staff  to  his  shoulaer 
gun- wise  ;  and  at  the  word  of  command,  Down,  Mop  was 
on  his  side,  stiff  and  lifeless.  "Still,"  said  Waife,  "a 
name  connected  with  profound  calculation  would  be  the 
most  appropriate  ;  for  instance.  Sir  Isaac  —  " 

Before  the  comedian  could  get  out  the  word  Newton, 
Mop  had  sprung  to  his  four  feet,  and,  with  wagging  tail 
and  wriggling  back,  evinced  a  sense  of  beatified  recog- 
nition. 

"Astounding  !  "  said  Waife,  rather  awed.  "  Can  it  be 
the  name  ?     Impossible.     Sir  Isaac,  Sir  Isaac  !  "  • 

"  Bow  wow  !  "  answered  Mop,  joyously. 

"  If  there  be  any  truth  in  the  doctrine  of  metempsy- 
chosis !  "  faltered  Gentleman  Waife,  "  if  the  great  Newton 
could  have  transmigrated  into  that  incomparable  animal. 
Newton,  Newton."  To  that  name  Mop  made  no  obeisance, 
but,  evidently  still  restless,  walked  round  the  room,  smelling 
at  every  corner,  and  turning  to  look  back  with  inquisitive 
earnestness  at  his  new  master. 

"  He  does  not  seem  to  catch  at  the  name  of  Newton," 
said  Waife,  trying  it  thrice  again,  and  vainly,  "  and  yet 
he  seems  extremely  well  versed  in  the  principle  of  gravity. 
Sir  Isaac  !  "  The  dog  bounded  toward  him,  put  his  paws 
on  his  shoulders,  and  licked  his  face.  "Just  cut  out 
those  figures  carefully,  my  dear,  and  see  if  we  can  get  him 

P 


226  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

10  tell  us  how  much  twice  ten  are  —  I  mean  by  addressing 
him  as  Sir  Isaac." 

Sophy  cut  the  figures  from  the  multiplication-table, 
and  arranged  them,  at  Waife's  instruction,  in  a  circle  on 
the  floor.  "Now,  Sir  Isaac."  Mop  lifted  ^  paw,  and 
walked  deliberately  round  the  letters.  '  "  Now.  Sir  Isaac, 
how  much  are  ten  times  two  ?  "  Mop  deliberately  made 
his  survey  and  calculation,  and  pausing  at  twenty  stooped, 
and  took  the  letters  in  his  mouth. 

"It  is  not  natural,"  cried  Sophy,  much  alarmed.  "It 
must  be  wicked,  and  I'd  rather  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it,  please." 

"  Silly  child.  He  was  but  obeying  my  sign.  He  had 
been  taught  that  trick  already  under  the  name  of  Mop. 
The  only  strange  thing  is,  that  he  should  do  it  also  under 
the  name  of  Sir  Isaac,  and  much  more  cheerfully  too. 
However,  whether  he  has  been  the  great  Newton  or  not, 
a  live  dog  is  better  than  a  dead  lion.  But  it  is  clear  that, 
in  acknowledging  the  name  of  Sir  Isaac,  he  does  not  en- 
courage us  to  take  that  of  Newton — and  he  is  right ;  for 
it  might  be  thought  unbecoming  to  apply  to  an  animal, 
however  extraordinary,  who,  by  the  severity  of  fortune  is 
compelled  to  exhibit  his  talents  for  a  small  pecuniary 
reward,  the  family  name  of  so  great  a  philosopher.  Sir 
Isaac,  after  all,  is  a  vague  appellation  —  any  dog  has  a 
right  to  be  Sir  Isaac  —  Newton  may  be  left  conjectural. 
Let  us  see  if  we  can  add  to  our  arithmetical  information. 
Look  at  me,  Sir  Isaac."  Sir  Isaac  looked,  and  grinned 
affectionately  j  and  under  that  title  learned  a  new  combi 


"WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  227 

nation  with  a  facility  that  miti;ht  have  relieved  Sophy's 
mind  of  all  sui)erstitions  belief  that  the  philosopher  was 
resuscitated  in  the  dog,  had  she  known  that  in  life  that 
great  master  of  calcnlations  the  most  abstruse  could  not 
accurately  cast  up  a  simple  sum  in  addition.  Nothing 
brought  1;  im  to  the  end  of  his  majestic  tether  like  dot  and 
carry  one.  Notable  type  of  our  human  incompleteness, 
Inhere  men  might  deem  our  studies  had  made  us  most 
complete.  Notable  type,  too,  of  that  grandest  order  of 
all  human  genius  which  seems  to  arrive  at  results  by  in- 
tuition, which  a  child  might  pose  by  a  row  of  figures  on 
a  slate  —  while  it  is  solving  the  laws  that  link  the  stars 
to  infinity.  But  y^evenonH  a  noa  moutona,  what  the  astral 
attraction  that  incontestably  bound  the  reminiscences  of 
Mop  to  the  cognorainal  distinction  of  Sir  Isaac  ?  I  had 
prepared  a  very  erudite  and  subtle  treatise  upon  this 
query,  enlivened  by  quotations  from  the  ancient  Mystics 
■—such  as  lamblichus  and  Proclus,  as  well  as  by  a  copious 
reference  to  the  doctrine  of  the  more  molern  Spiritualists, 
from  Sir  Kenelm  Digby  and  Swedenborg,  to  Monsieur 
Cahaguet  and  Judge  Edmonds:  it  was  to  be  called  In- 
quiry into  the  Law  of  Affinities,  by  Philomopsos  :  when, 
unluckily  for  my  treatise,  I  arrived  at  the  knowledge  of  a 
fact  which,  though  it  did  not  render  the  treatise  less 
curious,  knocked  on  the  head  the  theory  upon  which  it 
was  based.  The  baptismal  name  of  the  old  soldier,  Mop's 
.^rst  proprietor  and  earliest  preceptor,  was  Isaac  ;  and 
his  master  being  called  in  the  homely  household  by  that 
Christian  name,  the  sound  had  entered  into  Mop's  youngest 


228  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

and  most  endeared  associations.  His  canine  affections 
had  done  much  toward  ripening  his  scholastic  education. 
"  Where  is  Isaac  ?  "  "  Call  Isaac  !  "  "  Fetch  Isaac  his 
hat,"  etc.,  etc.  Stilled  was  that  name  wlien  the  old 
soldier  died  ;  but  when  heard  again,  Mop's  heart  was 
moved,  and  in  missing  the  old  master,  he  felt  more  at 
home  with  the  new.  As  for  the  ti'Je,  "  Sir,"  it  was  a 
mere  expletive  in  his  ears.  Such  was  the  fact,  and  such 
the  deduction  to  be  drawn  from  it.  Not  that  it  will 
satisfy  every  one.  I  know  that  philosophers  who  deny 
all  that  they  have  not  w^itnessed,  and  refuse  to  witness 
w^hat  they  resolve  to  deny,  will  reject  the  story  in  toto  ; 
and  will  prove,  by  reference  to  their  own  dogs,  that  a  dog 
never  recognises  the  name  of  his  master — never  yet  could 
be  taught  arithmetic.  I  know  also  that  there  are  Mystics 
who  will  prefer  to  believe  that  Mop  was  in  direct  spiritual 
communication  with  unseen  Isaacs,  or  in  a  state  of  clair- 
voyance, or  under  the  influence  of  the  odic  fluid.  But 
did  we  ever  yet  find  in  human  reason  a  question  with  only 
one  side  to  it  ?  Is  not  truth  a  polygon  ?  Have  not  sages 
arisen  in  our  day  to  deny  even  the  principle  of  gravity 
for  which  we  had  been  so  long  contentedly  taking  the 
word  of  the  great  Sir  Isaac  ?  It  is  that  blessed  spirit  of 
controversy  which  keeps  the  world  going  ;  and  it  is  that 
which,  perhaps,  explains  why  Mr.Waife,  when  his  memory 
was  fairly  put  to  it,  could  remember,  out  of  the  history 
of  the  myriads  who  have  occupied  our  planet  from  the 
date  of  Adam  to  that  in  which  I  now  write,  so  very  few 
men  whom  the  world  will  agree  to  call  wise,  and  out  of 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  22l> 

that  very  few  so  scant  a  percentage  with  names  sufficiently 
known  to  make  them  more  popularly  significant  of  pre- 
eminent sagacity  than  if  they  had  been  called  —  Mops. 


CHAPTER   yi. 

The  Vagr.int  having  got  his  dog,  proceeds  to  hunt  Fortune  with  it, 
leaving  behind  him  a  trap  to  catch  rats.  What  the  trap  does 
catch  is  "just  like  his  luck!" 

Sir  Isaac,  to  designate  him  by  his  new  name,  improved 
much  upon  acquaintance.  He  was  still  in  the  ductile 
season  of  youth,  and  took  to  learning  as  an  amusement 
to  himself.  His  last  master,  a  stupid  sot,  bad  not  gained 
his  affections  —  and  perhaps  even  the  old  soldier,  though 
gratefully  remembered  and  mourned,  had  not  stolen  into 
his  innermost  heart,  as  Waife  and  Sophy  ge'atly  contrived 
to  do.  In  short,  in  a  very  few  days  he  became  perfectly 
accustomed  and  extremely  attached  to  them.  When  Waife 
had  ascertained  the  extent  of  his  accomplishments,  and 
added  somewhat  to  their  range  in  matters  which  cost  no 
great  trouble,  he  applied  himself  to  the  task  of  composing 
a  little  drama,  which  might  bring  them  aU  into  more 
interesting  play,  and  in  which,  though  Sophy  and  himself 
were  performers,  the  dog  had  the  iwemier  role.  And 
as  soon  as  this  was  done,  and  tlie  dog's  performances  thus 
ranged  into  methodical  order  and  sequence,  he  r^soWed  tc 

I.  -20 


230  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

set  off  to  a  considerable  town  at  some  distance,  and  to 
which  Mr.  Rugge  was  no  visitor. 

His  bill  at  the  cottage  made  but  slight  inroad  into  his 
pecuniary  resources  ;  for  in  the  intervals  of  leisure  from 
his  instructions  to  Sir  Isaac,  Waife  had  performed  various 
little  services  to  the  lone  widow  with  whom  they  lodged, 
which  Mrs.  Saunders  (such  was  her  name)  insisted  upon 
regarding  as  money's  worth.  He  had  repaired  and  regu- 
lated to  a  minute  an  old  clock  which  had  taken  no  note 
of  time  for  the  last  three  years  ;  he  had  mended  all  the 
broken  crockery  by  some  cement  of  his  own  invention, 
and  for  which  she  got  him  the  materials.  And  here  his 
ingenuity  was  remarkable,  for  when  there  was  only  a 
fragment  to  be  found  of  a  cup,  and  a  fragment  or  two 
of  a  saucer,  he  united  them  both  into  some  pretty  form, 
which,  if  not  useful,  at  all  events  looked  well  on  a  shelf 
He  bound,  in  smart,  showy  papers,  sundry  tattered  old 
books  which  had  belonged  to  his  landlady's  defunct  hus- 
band, a  Scotch  gardener,  and  which  she  displayed  on  a 
side-table,  under  the  Japan  tea-tray.  More  than  all,  he 
was  of  service  to  her  in  her  vocation  ;  for  Mrs.  Saunders 
eked  out  a  small  pension  —  which  she  derived  from  the 
affectionate  providence  of  her  Scotch  husband,  in  insuring 
his  life  in  her  favor  —  by  the  rearing  and  sale  of  poultry  ; 
and  Waife  saved  her  the  expense  of  a  carpenter  by  the 
construction  of  a  new  coop,  elevated  above  the  reach  of 
the  rats,  who  had  hitherto  made  sad  ravage  among  the 
chickens ;  while  he  confided  to  her  certain  secrets  in  the 
improvement  of  breed  and  the  cheaper  processes  of  fatten- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  231 

ing,  which  excitbd  her  gratitude  no  less  than  her  wondei. 
"The  fact  is,"  said  Gentleman  Waife,  " that  my  life  has 
known  make-shifts.  Once,  in  a  foreign  country,  I  "kept 
poultry  upon  the  principle  that  the  poultry  should  keep 
me.'* 

Strange  it  was  to  notice  such  versatility  of  invention, 
BU3h  readiness  of  resource,  such  familiarity  with  divers 
nooks  and  crannies  in  the  practical  experience  of  life,  in 
a  man  now  so  hard  put  to  it  for  a  livelihood.  There  are 
persons,  however,  who  might  have  a  good  stock  of  talent, 
if  they  did  not  turn  it  all  into  small  change.  And  you, 
reader,  know  as  well  as  I  do,  that  when  a  sovereign  or  a 
shilling  is  once  broken  into,  the  change  scatters  and 
dispends  itself  in  a  way  quite  unaccountable.  Still  cop- 
pers are  useful  in  household  bills  ;  and  when  Waife  was 
really  at  a  pinch,  somehow  or  other,  by  hook  or  by  crook, 
he  scraped  together  intellectual  half-pence  enough  to  pay 
his  way. 

Mrs.  Saunders  grew  quite  fond  of  her  lodgers.  Waife 
she  regarded  as  a  prodigy  of  genius ;  Sophy  was  the 
prettiest  and  best  of  children  ;  Sir  Isaac,  she  took  for 
granted,  was  worthy  of  his  owners.  But  the  Comedian 
did  not  confide  to  her  his  dog's  learning,  nor  the  use  to 
which  he  designed  to  put  it.  And  in  still  greater  pre- 
caution, when  he  took  his  leave,  he  extracted  from  Mrs. 
Saunders  a  solemn  promise  that  she  would  set  no  one  on 
his  track,  in  case  of  impertinent  inquiries. 

"You  see  before  you,"  said  he,  "a  man  who  has  ene- 
mies -  -  such  as  rats  are  to  your  chickens  :  chickens  despise 


232  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

rats  when  raised,  as  yours  are  now,  above  the  reach  of 
claws  and  teeth.  Some  day  or  other  I  may  so  raise  a 
coop  for  that  little  one  —  I  am  too  old  for  coops.  Mean- 
while, if  a  rat  comes  sneaking  here  after  us,  send  it  off 
the  wrong  way,  with  a  flea  in  its  ear.  " 

Mrs.  Saunders  promised,  between  tears  and  laughter ; 
blessed  Waife,  kissed  Sophy,  patted  Sir  Isaac,  and  stood 
long  at  her  threshold  watching  the  three,  as  the  early  sun 
lit  their  forms  receding  in  the  green,  narrow  lane  —  dew- 
drops  sparkling  on  the  hedgerows,  aud  the  sky-lark 
springing  upward  from  the  young  corn. 

Then  she  slowly  turned  in-doors,  and  her  home  seemed 
very  solitary.  We  can  accustom  ourselves  to  loneliness, 
but  we  should  beware  of  infringing  the  custom.  Once 
admit  two  or  three  faces  seated  at  your  hearthside,  or 
gazing  out  from  your  windows  on  the  laughing  sun,  and 
when  they  are  gone,  they  carry  off  the  glow  from  your 
grate  and  the  sunbeam  from  your  panes.  Poor  Mrs. 
Sa.unders  I  in  vain  she  sought  to  rouse  herself,  to  put  the 
rooms  to  rights,  to  attend  to  the  chickens,  to  distract  her 
thoughts.  The  one-eyed  cripple,  the  little  girl,  the 
shaggy-faced  dog,  still  haunted  her ;  and  when  at  noon 
she  dined  all  alone  off  the  remnants  of  the  last  night's 
social  supper,  the  very  click  of  the  renovated  clock  seemed 
to  say,  "  Gone,  gone  ;"  and  muttering,  "Ah  1  gone,"  she 
reclined  back  on  her  chair,  and  indulged  herself  in  a  good 
womanlike  cry.  From  this  luxury  she  was  startled  by  a 
knock  at  the  door.  "Could  they  have  come  back?" 
No ;  the  door  opened,  and  a  genteel  young  man,  in  a 
black  coat  and  white  neckloth,  stepped  in. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  235 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am  —  your  name's  Saunders 
—  sell  poultry  I" 

"  At  your  service,  Sir.  Spring  chickens  I"  Poor  people, 
whatever  their  grief,  must  sell  their  chickens,  if  they  have 
any  to  sell. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am  ;  not  at  this  moment.  The  fact 
i=.  that  I  call  to  make  some  inquiries.  Have  not  you 
lodgers  here  ?  " 

Lodgers  1  at  that  word  the  expanding  soul  of  Mrs.  Soun- 
ders reclosed  hermetically ;  the  last  warning  of  Waife 
revibrated  in  her  ears  :  this  white-necklothed  gentleman, 
was  he  not  a  rat  ? 

"No,  Sir,  I  han't  no  lodgers." 

"  But  you  have  had  some  lately,  eh  ?  a  crippled  elderly 
man  and  a  little  girl." 

"Don't  know  any  thing  about  them  ;  leastways,"  said 
Mrs.  Saunders,  suddenly  remembering  that  she  was  told 
less  to  deny  facts  than  to  send  inquirers  upon  wrong 
directions — "  leastways,  at  this  blessed  time.  Pray,  Sir, 
what  makes  you  ask  ? " 

"  Why,  I  was  instructed  to  come  aown  to ,  and 

find  out  where  this  person,  one  William  Waife,  had  gone. 
Arrived  yesterday,  ma'am.  All  I  could  hear  is,  that  a 
person  answering  to  his  description  left  the  place  several 
days  ago,  and  had  been  seen  by  a  boy,  who  was  tending 
sheep,  to  come  down  the  lane  to  your  house,  and  you 
were  supposed  to  have  lodgers  (You  take  lodgers  some- 
times, I  think,  ma'am)  ;  because  you  had  been  buying 
some  trifling  articles  of  food  not  in  your  usual  way  of 
20* 


234  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

custom.  Circumstantial  evidence,  ma'am — you  can  have 
Lo  motive  to  conceal  the  trutli." 

"  I  should  think  not  indeed,  Sir,"  retorted  Mrs.  Saun- 
ders, whom  the  ominous  words  "  circumstantial  evidence" 
set  ioubly  on  her  guard.  "  I  did  see  a  gentleman  such 
as  jou  mention,  and  a  pretty  young  lady,  about  ten  days 
agone,  or  so,  and  they  did  lodge  here  a  night  or  two,  but 
they  are  gone  to — " 

"Yes,  ma'am  —  gone  where?" 

"Lunnon." 

"  Really  —  very  likely.     By  the  train  or  on  foot  ?  " 

"  On  foot,  I  s'pose." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am.  If  you  should  see  them  again, 
or  hear  where  they  are,  oblige  me  by  conveying  this  card 
to  Mr.Waife,  My  employer,  ma'am,  Mr.  Gotobed,  Craven 
Street,  Strand — eminent  solicitor.  He  has  something  of 
importance  to  communicate  to  Mr.  Waife." 

"  Yes,  Sir  —  a  law7er  ;  I  understand."  And  as  of  all 
rat-like  animals  in  the  world  Mrs.  Saunders  had  the  ignor- 
ance to  deem  a  lawyer  was  the  most  emphatically  devour- 
ing, she  congratulated  herself  with  her  whole  heart  on  the 
white  lies  she  had  told  in  favor  of  the  intended  victims. 

The  blackcoated  gentleman  having  thus  obeyed  his  in^ 
structions,  and  attained  his  object,  nodded,  went  his  way, 
and  regained  the  fly  which  he  had  left  at  the  turnstile. 
"  Back  to  the  inn,"  cried  he — "  quick — I  must  be  in  time 
for  the  three  o'clock  train  to  London." 

And  thus  terminated  the  result  of  the  great  barrister's 
first  instructions  to  his  eminent  solicitor  to  discover  a 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  235 

lame  man  and  a  little  girl.  No  inquiry,  on  the  whole, 
could  have  been  more  skilfully  conducted.  Mr.  Gotobed 
Bends  his  head  clerk  —  the  head  clerk  employs  the  police* 
man  of  the  village — gets  upon  the  right  track — comes  to 
the  right  house  —  and  is  altogether  in  the  wrong  —  in  a 
manner  highly  creditable  to  his  researches. 

"In  London,  of  course— all  people  of  that  kind  come 
back  to  Loudon,"  said  Mr.  Gotobed.  *'  Give  me  the 
heads  in  writing,  that  I  may  report  to  my  distinguished 
client.  Most  satisfactory.  That  young  man  will  push 
his  way  —  business-like  and  methodical." 


CHAPTER   YII. 

The  cloud  has  its  silver  lining. 

Thus  turning  his  back  on  the  good  fortune  which  he 
had  so  carefully  cautioned  Mrs.  Saunders  against  favoring 
on  his  behalf,  the  vagrant  was  now  on  his  way  to  the 
ancient  municipal  town  of  Gatesl)orough,  which  being 
the  nearest  place  of  fitting  opulence  and  population,  Mr. 
Waife  had  resolved  to  honor  with  the  debut  of  Sir  Isaac 
as  soon  as  he  had  appropriated  to  himself  the  services  of 
that  promising  quaflruped.  He  had  consulted  a  map  of 
the  county  before  quitting  Mr.  Merle's  roof,  and  ascer- 
tained that  he  could  reach  Gatesborough  by  a  short  cut 
for  foot-travellers  along  fields  and  lanes.  He  was  always 
glad  tc  avoid  the  high-road  :  doubtless  for  such  avoidance 


236  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

he  bad  good  reasons.  But  prudential  reasons  were  in  this 
instance  supported  by  vagrant  inclinations.  High-roads 
are  for  the  prosperous.  By-paths  and  ill-luck  go  together. 
But  by-paths  have  their  charm,  and  ill-luck  its  pleasant 
moments. 

They  passed,  then,  from  the  high-road  into  a  long  suc- 
cession of  green  pastures,  through  which  a  straight  public 
path  conducted  them  into  one  of  those  charming  lanes 
never  seen  out  of  this  bowery  England — a  lane  deep  sunk 
amidst  high  banks,  with  overhanging  oaks,  and  quivering 
ash,  gnarled  witch-elm,  vivid  holly,  and  shaggy  brambles, 
with  wild  convolvulus  and  creeping  woodbine  forcing 
sweet  life  through  all.  Sometimes  the  banks  opened 
abruptly,  leaving  patches  of  greensward,  and  peeps 
through  still  sequestered  gates,  or  over  moss-grown  pales, 
into  the  park  or  paddock  of  some  rural  thane.  New 
villas  or  old  manor-houses  on  lawny  uplands,  knitting,  as 
it  were,  together,  England's  feudal  memories  with  Eng- 
land's free-born  hopes  —  the  old  land  with  its  young 
people  :  for  England  is  so  old,  and  the  English  are  so 
young  I  And  the  gray  cripple  and  the  bright-haired  child 
often  paused,  and  gazed  upon  the  demesnes  and  homes 
of  owners  whose  lots  were  cast  in  such  pleasant  places. 
But  there  was  no  grudging  envy  in  their  gaze  ;  perhaps 
because  their  life  was  too  remote  from  those  grand  be- 
longings. And  therefore  they  could  enjoy  and  possess 
every  banquet  of  the  eye.  For  at  least  the  beauty  of 
what  we  see  is  ours  for  the  moment,  on  the  simple  con- 
dition that  we  do  not  covet  the  thing  wh'ch  gives  to  our 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  237 

eyes  that  beauty.  As  the  measureless  sky  and  the  un- 
numbered stars  are  equally  granted  to  king  and  to  beg- 
gar—  and  in  our  wildest  ambition  we  do  not  sigh  for  a 
monopoly  of  the  empyrean,  or  the  fee-simple  of  the  planeti 
—  so  the  earth  too,  with  all  its  fenced  gardens  and  em- 
battled walls  —  all  its  landmarks  of  stern  property  and 
churlish  ownership  —  is  ours  too  by  right  of  eye.  Ours 
to  gaze  on  the  fair  possessions  with  such  delight  as  the 
gaze  can  give ;  grudging  to  the  unseen  owner  his  other, 
and  it  nmy  be  more  troubled  rights,  as  little  as  we  grudge 
an  astral  proprietor  his  acres  of  light  in  Capricorn. 
Benignant  is  the  law  that  saith,  "  Thou  shall  not  covet.'^ 
When  the  sun  was  at  the  highest,  our  wayfarers  found 
a  shadowy  nook  for  their  rest  and  repast.  Before  them 
ran  a  shallow  limpid  trout-stream  ;  on  the  other  side  its 
margin,  low  grassy  meadows,  a  farm-house  at  the  distance, 
backed  by  a  still  grove,  from  which  rose  a  still  church- 
tower  and  its  still  spire.  Behind  them  a  close-shaven 
sloping  lawn  terminated  the  hedgerow  of  the  lane ;  seen 
clearly  above  it,  with  parterres  of  flowers  on  the  sward 
— drooping  lilacs  and  laburnums  farther  back,  and  a  per- 
vading fragrance  from  the  brief-lived  and  rich  syringas. 
The  cripple  had  climbed  over  a  wooden  rail  that  separated 
the  lane  from  the  rill,  and  seated  himself  under  the  shade 
of  a  fantastic  hollow  thorn-tree.  Sophy,  reclined  beside 
him,  was  g^ithering  some  pale  scentless  violets  from  a 
mound  which  the  brambles  had  guarded  from  the  sun. 
The  dog  had  descended  to  the  waters  to  quench  his 
thirst ;  but  still  stood  knee-deep  in  the  shallow  stream, 


2S8  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

and  appeared  lost  in  philosophical  contemplation  of  a 
swarm  of  minnows  which  his  immersion  had  disturbed  ; 
but  which  now  made  itself  again  visible  on  the  further 
Ride  of  the  glassy  brook,  undulating  round  and  round  a 
tiny  rocklet  which  interrupted  the  glide  of  the  waves,  and 
caused  them  to  break  into  a  low  melodious  murmur. 
"  For  these  and  all  thy  mercies,  0  Lord,  make  us  thank- 
ful," said  the  Victim  of  Ill-luck,  in  the  tritest  words  of  a 
pious  custom.  But  never,  perhaps,  at  aldermanic  feasts, 
was  the  grace  more  sincerely  said. 

And  then  he  untied  the  bundle,  which  the  dog,  who 
had  hitherto  carried  it  by  the  way,  had  now  carefully  de- 
posited at  his  side.  "As  I  live,"  ejaculated  Waife,  "  Mrs. 
Saunders  is  a  woman  in  ten  thousand.  See,  Sophy,  not 
contented  with  the  bread  and  cheese  to  which  I  bade  her 
stint  her  beneficence,  a  whole  chicken — a  little  cake  too 
for  you,  Sophy ;  she  has  not  even  forgotten  the  salt. 
Sophy,  that  woman  deserves  the  handsomest  token  of  our 
gratitude  ;  and  we  will  present  her  with  a  silver  tea-pot 
the  first  moment  we  can  afford  it." 

His  spirits  exhilarated  by  the  unexpected  good  cheer, 
the  Comedian  gave  way  to  his  naturally  blithe  humor ; 
and  between  every  mouthful  he  rattled  or  rather  drolled 
on,  now  infant-like,  now  sage-like.  He  cast  out  the  rays 
of  his  liberal  humor,  careless  where  they  fell  —  on  the 
child — on  the  dog — on  the  fishes  that  played  beneath  the 
wave — on  the  cricket  that  chirped  amidst  the  grass  :  the 
woodpecker  tapped  the  tree,  and  the  cripple's  merry  voice 
answered  it  in  bird-like  mimicry.     To  this  riot  of  geuial 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  239 

babble  there  was  a  listener,  of  whom  neither  grandfather 
nor  grandchild  was  aware.  Concealed  by  thick  brush- 
wood a  few  paces  farther  on,  a  young  angler,  who  might 
be  five  or  six  and  twenty,  had  seated  himself,  just  before 
the  arrival  of  our  vag-ant  to  those  banks  and  waters,  for 
the  purpose  of  changi  -g  an  unsuccessful  fly.  At  the 
sound  of  voices,  perhaps  suspecting  an  unlicensed  rival 
— for  that  part  of  the  stream  was  preserved — he  had  sus- 
pended his  task,  and  noiselessly  put  aside  the  clustering 
leaves  to  reconnoitre.  The  piety  of  Waife's  simple  grace 
seemed  to  surprise  him  pleasingly,  for  a  sweet  approving 
smile  crossed  his  lips.  He  continued  to  look  and  to 
listen.  He  forgot  the  fly,  and  a  trout  sailed  him  by  un- 
heeded. But  Sir  Isaac,  having  probably  satisfied  his 
speculative  mind  as  to  the  natural  attributes  of  minnows, 
now  slowly  reascended  the  bank,  and  after  a  brief  halt 
and  a  sniff,  walked  majestically  toward  the  hidden  ob- 
server, looked  at  him  with  great  solemnity,  and  uttered 
an  inquisitive  bark  —  a  bark  not  hostile,  not  menacing; 
purely  and  dryly  interrogative.  Thus  detected,  the  angler 
rose  ;  and  Waife,  whose  attention  was  attracted  that  way 
by  the  bark,  saw  him,  called  to  Sir  Isaac,  and  said  politely, 
"There  is  no  harip  in  my  dog.  Sir." 

The  young  man  muttered  some  inaudible  reply,  and, 
lifting  up  his  rod,  as  in  sign  of  his  occupation  or  excuse 
for  his  vicinity,  put  aside  the  intervening  foliage,  and 
stepped  quietly  to  Waife's  side.  Sir  Isaac  followed  him 
—  sniffed  again  —  seemed  satisfied  ;  and,  seating  himself 
3Q  his  haunches,  fixed  his  attention  upon  the  remains  of 


240  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

the  chicken  which  lay  defenseless  on  the  grass.  The  new- 
comer was  evidently  of  the  rank  of  gentleman ;  his  figure 
was  slim  and  graceful,  his  face  pale,  meditative,  refined. 
He  would  have  impressed  you  at  once  with  the  idea  of 
what  he  really  was — an  Oxford  scholar  ;  and  you  would, 
perhaps,  have  guessed  him  designed  for  the  ministry  of 
the  Church,  if  not  actually  in  orders. 


CHAPTER   YIII. 

Mr.  Waife  excites  the  admiration,  and  benignly  pities  the  infirmity 
of  an  Oxford  scholar. 

"You  are  str  —  str  —  strangers  ?"  said  the  Oxonian, 
after  a  violent  exertion  to  express  himself,  caused  by  an 
impediment  in  his  speech. 

Waife.   "  Yes,  Sir,  travellers.   I  trust  we  are  not  tres 
passing :  this  is  not  private  ground,  I  think  ?  " 

Oxonian.  "And  if— f— f— f  it  were,  my  f— f— 
father  would  not  war  —  n  —  n  you  off — fif — f." 

"It  is  your  father's  ground  then ?  Sir,  I  beg  you  a 
thousand  pardons." 

The  apology  was  made  in  the  Comedian's  grandest  style 
--it  imposed  greatly  on  the  young  scholar.  Waife  might 
have  been  a  duke  in  disguise  ;  but  I  will  do  the  angler  the 
justice  to  say  that  such  discovery  of  rank  would  have  im- 
pressed him  little  more  in  the  vagrant's  favor.  It  had 
been  that  impromptu  "  grace  "  —  that  thanksgiving  which 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  24  J 

the  scholar  felt  was  for  something  more  than  the  carnal 
food — which  had  first  commanded  his  respect  and  wakened 
his  interest.  Then  that  innocent,  careless  talk,  part  ut- 
tered to  dog  and  child  —  part  soliloquised  —  part  thrown 
out  to  the  ears  of  the  lively  teeming  Nature,  had  touched 
a  somewhat  kindred  chord  p  the  angler's  soul,  for  he  was 
somewhat  of  a  poet  and  much  of  a  soliloquist,  and  could 
confer  with  Nature,  not  feel  that  impediment  in  speech 
which  obstructed  his  intercourse  with  men.  Having  thus 
far  indicated  that  oral  defect  in  our  new  acquaintance,  the 
reader  will  cheerfully  excuse  me  for  not  enforcing  it  over- 
much. Let  it  be  among  the  things  sub  audita,  as  the 
sense  of  it  gave  to  a  gifted  and  aspiring  nature,  thwarted 
in  the  sublime  career  of  preacher,  an  exquisite  mournful 
pain.  And  I  no  more  like  to  raise  a  laugh  at  his  infirmity 
behind  his  back,  than  I  should  before  his  pale,  powerful, 
melancholy  face  —  therefore  I  suppress  the  infirmity  in 
giving  his  reply. 

Oxonian.  "  On  the  other  side  the  lane  where  the  gar- 
den slopes  downward  is  my  father's  house.  This  ground 
is  his  property  certainly,  but  he  puts  it  to  its  best*use,  in 
lending  it  to  those  who  so  piously  acknowledge  that  Fa- 
ther from  whom  all  good  comes.  Your  child,  I  presume, 
Sir  ?  " 

"My  grandchild." 

"  She  seems  delicate  ;  I  hope  you  have  not  far  to  go  ?  ^' 

"  Not  very  far,  thank  you,  Sir.  But  my  little  girl  looks 
more  delicate  than  she  is.     You  are  not  tired,  darling  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  at  all  1 "     There  was  no  mistaking  the  looks 

:.  — 21  Q 


242  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

of  real  love  interchanged  between  the  old  man  and  the 
child  :  the  scholar  felt  much  interested  and  somewhat  puz- 
zled. "  Who  and  what  could  they  be  ?  so  unlike  foot  way- 
farers ! "  On  the  other  hand,  too,  Waife  took  a  liking  to 
the  courteous  young  man,  and  conceived  a  sincere  pity 
for  his  physical  affliction.  But  he  did  not  for  those  rea- 
sons depart  from  the  discreet  caution  he  had  prescribed  to 
himself  in  seeking  new  fortunes  and  shunning  old  perils ; 
so  he  turned  the  subject. 

"  You  are  an  angler,  Sir  ?  I  suppose  the  trout  in  this 
stream  run  small." 

"  Not  very— -a  little  higher  up  I  have  caught  them  at 
four  pounds  weight." 

Waife.  "  There  goes  a  fine  fish  yonder  —  s&e  1  balanc- 
ing himself  between  those  weeds  " 

Oxonian.  "  Poor  fellow,  let  him  be  safe  to-day.  After 
all,  it  is  a  cruel  sport,  and  I  should  break  myself  of  it. 
But  it  is  strange  that  whatever  our  love  for  Nature,  we 
always  seek  some  excuse  for  trusting  ourselves  alone  to 
her.  A  gun  —  a  rod  —  a  sketch-book  —  a  geologist's 
hammer  —  an  entomologist's  net  —  something." 

Waife.  "  Is  it  not  because  all  our  ideas  would  ruu 
wild  if  not  concentrated  on  a  definite  pursuit  ?  Fortune 
and  Nature  are  earnest  females,  though  popular  beauties  ; 
and  they  do  not  look  upon  coquettish  triflers  in  the  light 
of  genuine  wooers," 

The  Oxonian  who,  in  venting  his  previous  remark,  had 
thought  it  likely  he  should  be  above  his  listener's  compre- 
hension, looked  surprised.  What  pursuits,  too,  had  thig 
one-eyed  philosopher  1 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  243 

"  You  have  a  definite  pursuit,  Sir  ? " 

"I  —  alas  —  when  a  man  moralizes,  it  is  a  sign  that  he 
has  known  error  :  it  is  because  I  have  been  a  trifler  that 
I  rail  against  triflers.  And  talking  of  that,  time  flies,  and 
we  must  be  off  and  away." 

Sophy  retied  the  bundle.  Sir  Isaac,  on  whom,  mean- 
while, she  had  bestowed  the  remains  of  the  chicken,  jumped 
up  and  described  a  circle. 

"I  wish  you  success  in  your  pursuit,  whatever  it  be,'* 
stuttered  out  the  angler. 

"  And  I  no  less  heartily.  Sir,  wish  you  success  in  yours." 

"Mine!    Success  there  is  beyond  my  power." 

"How,  Sir?     Does  it  rest  so  much  with  others?" 

"  No,  my  failure  is  in  myself.  My  career  should  be  the 
Church,  my  pursuit  the  cure  of  souls,  and  —  and  —  this 
pitiful  infirmity  I  How  can  I  speak  the  Divine  Word  — 
I  —  I  —  a  stutterer  !  " 

The  young  man  did  not  pause  for  an  answer,  but 
plunged  through  the  brushwood  that  bespread  the  banks 
of  the  rill,  and  his  hurried  path  could  be  traced  by  the 
wave  of  the  foliage  through  which  he  forced  his  way. 

"  We  all  have  our  burdens,"  said  Gentleman  Waife,  as 
Sir  Isaac  took  up  the  bundle,  and  stalked  on,  placid  and 
refreshed. 


244  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 


CHAPTER   IX. 

The  Nomad,  entering  into  civilized  life,  adopts  its  arts,  shaves  his 
poodle,  and  puts  on  a  black  coat.  Hints  at  the  process  by  which 
a  Cast-off  exalts  himself  into  a  Take-in. 

At  twilight  they  stopped  at  a  quiet  inn  within  eight 
miles  of  Gatesboro'.  Sophy,  much  tired,  was  glad  to 
creep  to  bed.  Waife  sat  up  long  after  her ;  and,  in  prepa- 
ration for  the  eventful  morrow,  washed  and  shaved  Sir 
Isaac.  You  would  not  have  known  the  dog  again  ;  he 
was  dazzling.  Not  Ulysses,  rejuvenated  by  Pallas  Athene, 
could  have  been  more  changed  for  the  better.  His  flanks 
revealed  a  skin  most  daintily  mottled  ;  his  tail  became 
leonine  with  an  imperial  tuft ;  his  mane  fell  in  long  curls, 
like  the  beard  of  a  Ninevite  king;  his  boots  were  those 
of  a  courtier  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  ;  his  eyes  looked 
forth  in  dark  splendor  from  locks  white  as  the  driven  snow. 
This  feat  performed,  Waife  slept  the  peace  of  the  right- 
eous, and  Sir  Isaac  stretched  on  the  floor  beside  the  bed, 
licked  his  mottled  flanks  and  shivered  —  "  II  faut  souffrir 
pour  etre  beau.''^  Much  marvelling,  Sophy  the  next  morn 
beheld  the  dog ;  but  before  she  was  up  Waife  had  paid 
the  bill  and  was  waiting  for  her  on  the  road,  impatient  to 
start.  He  did  not  heed  her  exclamations,  half  compas- 
sionate, half  admiring  ;  he  was  absorbed  in  thought.  Thus 
they  proceeded  slowly  on  till  within  two  miles  of  the  town, 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  245 

and  then  Waife  turned  aside,  entered  a  wood,  and  there, 
with  the  aid  of  Sophy,  put  the  dog  upon  a  deliberate 
rehearsal  of  the  anticipated  drama.  The  dog  was  not  in 
good  spirits,  but  he  went  through  his  part  with  mechani- 
cal accuracy,  though  slight  enthusiasm. 

"He  is, to  be  relied  upon,  in  spite  of  his  French 
origin,"  said  Waife.  "All  national  prejudice  fades  be- 
fore the  sense  of  a  common  interest  And  we  shall  always 
find  more  general  solidity  of  character  in  a  French  poodle 
than  in  an  English  mastiff,  whenever  a  poodle  is  of  use  to 
us,  and  a  mastiff  is  not.  But  oh,  waste  of  care  !  oh  sacri- 
fice of  time  to  empty  names !  oh  emblem  of  fashionable 
education!  It  never  struck  me  before  —  does  it  not, 
child  though  thou  art,  strike  thee  now  —  by  the  necessi- 
ties of  our  drama,  this  animal  must  be  a  French  dog  ? " 
"  Well,  grandfather  ? " 

"  And  we  have  given  him  an  English  name  !  Precious 
result  of  our  own  scholastic  training  ;  taught  at  prepara- 
tory academies  precisely  that  which  avails  us  naught 
when  we  are  to  face  the  world  !  What  is  to  be  done  ? 
Unlearn  him  his  own  cognomen  —  teach  him  another 
name  ;  too  late,  too  late  1  We  cannot  afford  the  delay." 
"  I  don't  see  why  he  should  be  called  any  name  at  all. 
He  observes  your  signs  just  as  well  without." 

"  If  I  had  but  discovered  that  at  the  beginning.  Pity  I 
Such  a  fine  name,  too  !  Sir  Isaac  I  Vanitas,  vanitatum! 
What  desire  chiefly  kindles  the  ambitious  ?  To  create  a 
name  —  perhaps  bequeath  a  title  —  exalt  into  Sir  Isaacs 
a  progeny  of  Mops  !  And  after  all,  it  is  possible  (let  us 
21* 


246  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     \yiTH    IT? 

liope  it  is  in  this  instance)  that  a  sensible  young  dog  may 
learn  his  letters  and  shoulder  his  musket  just  as  well 
though  all  the  appellations  by  which  humanity  knows  him 
be  condensed  into  a  pitiful  monosyllable.  Nevertheless 
(as  you  will  find  when  you  are  older),  people  are  obliged 
in  practice  to  renounce  for  themselves  the  application  of 
those  rules  which  they  philosophically  prescribe  for  others. 
Thus,  while  I  grant  that  a  change  of  name  for  that  dog 
is  a  question  belonging  to  the  policy  of  Ifs  and  Buts, 
commonly  called  the  policy  of  Expediency,  about  which 
one  may  differ  with  others  and  one's  own  self  every  quarter 
of  an  hour  —  a  change  of  name  for  me  belongs  to  the 
policy  of  Must  and  Shall,  viz.,  the  policy  of  Necessity, 
against  which  let  no  dog  bark,  though  I  have  known  dogs 
howl  at  it !  William  Waife  is  no  more  ;  he  is  dead  —  he 
is  buried  ;  and  even  Juliet  Aramiuta  is  the  baseless  fabric 
of  a  vision." 

Sophy  raised  inquiringly  her  blue,  guileless  eyes. 

"You  see  before  you  a  man  who  has  used  up  the  name 
of  Waife,  and  who,  on  entering  the  town  of  Gatesboro', 
becomes  a  sober,  staid,  and  respectable  personage,  under 
the  appellation  of  Chapman.  You  are  Miss  Chapman. 
Rugge  and  his  exhibition  'leave  not  a  wrack  behind.'  " 

Sophy  smiled  and  then  sighed  —  the  smile  for  her 
grandfather's  gay  spirits ;  wherefore  the  sigh  ?  Was  it 
that  some  instinct  in  that  fresh,  loyal  nature  revolted 
from  the  thought  of  these  aliases,  which,  if  requisite  for 
safety,  were  still  akin  to  imposture.  If  so,  poor  child, 
ghe  had  much  yet  to  set  right  with  her  conscience  I     Ali 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  24t 

I  can  say  is,  that  after  she  had  smiled  she  sighed.  And 
more  reasonably  might  a  reader  ask  his  author  to  subject 
a  zephyr  to  the  microscope  than  a  female's  sigh  to 
analysis. 

"  Take  the  dog  with  you,  my  dear,  back  into  the  lane ; 
I  will  join  you  in  a  few  minutes.  You  are  neatly  dressed, 
and  if  not,  would  look  so.  I,  in  this  old  coat,  have  the 
air  of  a  peddler,  so  I  will  change  it,  and  enter  the  town 
oi  Gatesboro'  in  the  character  of — a  man  whom  you  will 
soon  see  before  you.  Leave  those  things  alone,  de-Isaac- 
Sir  Isaac!     Follow  your  mistress  —  go." 

Sophy  left  the  wood,  and  walked  on  slowly  toward  the 
town,  with  her  hand  pensively  resting  on  Sir  Isaac's 
head.  In  less  than  ten  minutes  she  was  joined  by  Waife, 
attired  in  respectable  black ;  his  hat  and  shoes  well 
brushed ;  a  new  green  shade  to  his  eye  ;  and  with  his 
finest  air  of  Fere  Noble.  He  was  now  in  his  favorite 
element.  He  was  acting  —  call  it  not  imposture.  Was 
Lord  Chatham  an  imposter  when  he  draped  his  flannels 
into  the  folds  of  the  toga,  and  arrayed  the  curls  of  his 
wig  so  as  to  add  more  sublime  effect  to  the  majesty  of  his 
brow  and  the  terrors  of  its  nod  ?  And  certainly,  con- 
sidering that  Waife,  after  all,  was  but  a  professional 
vagabond  —  considering  all  the  turns  and  shifts  to  wliich 
he  has  been  put  for  bread  and  salt  —  the  wonder  is,  not 
tliat  he  is  full  of  stage  tricks  and  small  deceptions,  but 
thai  he  has  contrived  to  retain  at  heart  so  much  childish 
simplicity.  When  a  man  for  a  series  of  years  has  only 
had  his  wits  to  live  by,  I  say  not  that  he  is  necessarily  a 


248  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

rogue  —  lie  may  be  a  good  fellow  ;  but  you  can  scarcely 
expect  his  code  of  honor  to  be  precisely  the  same  as  Sir 
Philip  Sidney's.  Homer  expresses,  through  the  lips  of 
Achilles,  that  sublime  love  of  truth,  which,  even  in  those 
remote  times,  was  the  becoming  characteristic  of  a  gentle- 
man and  a  soldier.  But,  then,  Achilles  is  well  off  during 
his  whole  life,  which,  though  distinguished,  is  short.  On 
the  other  hand,  Ulysses,  who  is  sorely  put  to  it,  kept  out 
of  his  property  in  Ithaca,  and,  in  short,  living  on  his  wits^, 
is  not  the  less  befriended  by  the  immaculate  Pallas,  be- 
cause his  wisdom  savors  somewhat  of  stage  trick  and 
sharp  practice.  And  as  to  convenient  aliases  and  white 
fibs,  where  would  have  been  the  use  of  his  wits,  if  Ulysses 
had  disdained  such  arts,  and  been  magnanimously  munched 
up  by  Polyphemus  ?  Having  thus  touched  on  the  epic 
side  of  Mr.  Waife's  character  with  the  clemency  due  to 
human  nature,  but  with  the  caution  required  by  the  in- 
terests of  society,  permit  him  to  resume  a  "  duplex  course." 
sanctioned  by  ancient  precedent,  but  not  commended  to 
modern  imitation.  Just  as  our  travelers  neared  the  town, 
the  screech  of  a  railway  whistle  resounded  toward  their 
right  —  a  long  train  rushed  from  the  Jaws  of  a  tunnel, 
and  shot  into  the  neighboring  station. 

"  How  lucky  !  "  exclaimed  Waife  ;  "  make  haste,  my 
dear  !  "  Was  he  going  to  take  the  train  ?  Pshaw  !  he 
was  at  his  journey's  end.  He  was  going  to  mix  with  the 
throng  that  would  soon  stream  through  those  white  gates 
ntc  tbs  town;  he  was  going  to  purloin  the  respectable 
appearance  of  a  passenger  by  the  train.     And  so  well  did 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  249 

ne  act  the  part  of  a  bewildered  stranger  just  voraiied  forth 
into  unfamiliar  places  by  one  of  those  panting  steam 
monsters,  so  artfully  amidst  the  busy  competition  of  nudg- 
ing elbows,  overbearing  shoulders,  and  the  impedimenta 
of  carpet-bags,  portmanteaus,  babies  in  arms,  and  shin- 
assailing  trucks,  did  he  look  round  consequentially  on  the 
qiti  Vive,  turning  his  one  eye  now  on  Sophy,  now  on  Sir 
Isaac,  and  griping  his  bundle  to  his  breast  as  if  he  sus- 
pected all  his  neighbors  to  be  Thugs,  condottieri,  and 
swell-mob,  that  in  an  instant  fly-men,  omnibus-drivers, 
cads,  and  porters,  marked  him  for  their  own.  "  Gates- 
boro'  Arms,"  "Spread  Eagle,"  "Royal  Hotel,"  "  Sara- 
cen's Head,"  —  very  comfortable,  centre  of  High  Street, 
opposite  the  "  Town  Hall,"  —  were  shouted,  bawled, 
whispered,  or  whined  into  his  ear.  ''Is  there  an  honest 
porter  ?  "  asked  the  Comedian,  piteously.  An  Irishman 
presented  himself.  "And  is  it  meself  can  serve  your 
honor  ? ''  —  "  Take  this  bundle,  and  walk  on  before  me  to 
the  High  Street."— "  Could  not  I  take  the  bundle, 
grand-father  ?  The  man  will  charge  so  much,"  said  the 
prudent  Sophy.  *'  Hush  !  you  indeed  !  "  said  tho  Pere 
Noble,  as  if  addressing  an  exiled  Altesse  royale  —  "you 
take  a  bundle  —  Miss  —  Chapman!" 

They  soon  gained  the  High  Street.  Waife  ciamined 
thi  fronts  of  the  various  inns  w^hich  they  passed  by,  with 
an  eye  accustomed  to  decipher  the  physiognomy  of  hostel- 
ries.  "  The  Saracen's  Head"  pleased  him,  though  its 
imposing  size  daunted  Sophy.  He  arrested  tlie  steps  of 
the  porter,  "Follow  me  close,"  and  stepped  across  the 


250  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

open  threshold  into  the  bar.  The  landlady  herself  was 
there,  portly  and  imposing,  with  an  auburn  toupet,  a  silk 
gown,  a  cameo  brooch,  and  an  ample  bosom. 

"  You  have  a  private  sitting-room,  ma'am  ?  "  said  the 
Comedian,  lifting  his  hat.  There  are  so  many  ways  of 
lifting  a  hat — for  instance,  the  way  for  which  Louis  XIY. 
was  so  renowned.  But  the  Comedian's  way  on  the  pre- 
sent occasion  rather  resembled  that  of  the  late  Duke  of 
Beaufort  —  not  quite  royal,  but  as  near  to  royalty  as  be- 
comes a  subject.  He  added,  re-covering  his  head — "And 
on  the  first  floor  ?  "  The  landlady  did  not  courtesy,  but 
she  bowed,  emerged  from  the  bar,  and  set  foot  on  the 
broad  stairs  ;  then,  looking  back  graciously,  her  eyes 
rested  on  Sir  Isaac,  who  had  stalked  forth  in  advance, 
and  with  expansive  nostrils  sniffed.  She  hesitated. 
"  Your  dog,  Sir  I  shall  boots  take  it  round  to  the 
stables  ?  " 

"  The  stables,  ma'am  —  the  stables,  my  dear,"  turning 
to  Sophy,  with  a  smile  more  ducal  than  the  previous 
bow  ;  "  what  would  they  say  at  home  if  they  heard  that 
noble  animal  was  consigned  to — stables  ?  Ma'am,  my  dog 
is  my  companion,  and  as  much  accustomed  to  drawing- 
rooms  as  I  am  myself."  Still  the  landlady  paused.  The 
dog  might  be  accustomed  to  drawing-rooms,  but  her 
drawing-room  was  not  accustomed  to  dogs.  She  had 
just  laid  down  a  new  carpet.  And  such  are  the  strange 
and  erratic  affinities  in  nature — such  are  the  incongruous 
concatenations  in  the  cross-stitch  of  ideas,  that  t'aere  aie 
associations  between  dogs  and  carpets,  which,  if  wrong. 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH     IT?  251 

ful  to  the  owners  of  dogs,  beget  no  unreasonable  aupre- 
hensions  in  the  proprietors  of  carpets.  So  there  stood 
the  landhidy,  and  there  stood  the  dog  I  and  there  they 
might  be  standing  to  this  day  had  not  the  Comedian  dis- 
solved the  spell.  "  Take  up  my  effects  again,"  said 
he,  turning  to  the  porter ;  "  doubtless  they  are  more 
habituated  to  distinguish  between  dog  and  dog  at  the 
Royal  Hotel." 

The  landlady  was  mollified  in  a  moment.  ]N'or  was  it 
only  the  rivalries  that  necessarily  existed  between  the 
Saracen's  Ilead  and  the  Royal  Hotel  that  had  due  weight 
with  her.  A  gentleman  who  could  not  himself  deign  to 
carry  even  that  small  bundle,  must  be  indeed  a  gentleman  I 
Had  he  come  with  a  portmanteau. —  even  with  a  carpet- 
bag—  the  porter's  service  would  have  been  no  evidence 
of  rank,  but,  accustomed  as  she  was  chiefly  to  gentlemen 
«ngaged  in  commercial  pursuits,  it  was  new  to  her  ex- 
perience a  gentleman  with  effects  so  light  and  hands  so 
aristocratically  helpless.  Herein  were  equally  betokened 
the  two  attributes  of  birth  and  wealth — viz.,  the  habit  of 
command,  and  the  disdain  of  shillings.  A  vague  remem- 
brance of  the  well-known  story  how  a  man  and  his  dog 
had  arrived  at  the  Granby  Hotel,  at  Harrogate,  and  beej 
sent  away  roomless  to  the  other  and  less  patrician  estab- 
lishment, because,  while  he  had  a  dog,  he  had  not  a  ser- 
vant ;  when,  five  minutes  after  such  dismissal,  came  car- 
fiages  and  lackeys,  and  an  imperious  valet,  asking  for  hia 
grace  the  Duke  of  A — --,  who  had  walked  on  before  with 
his  dog,  and  who,  oh  everlasting  thought  of  remorse  I 


252  WHAT     WILL     UE    DO     WITH    IT? 

had  been  sent  away  to  bring  the  other  establishment  into 
fasliion  !  —  a  vague  reminiscence  of  that  story,  I  say, 
flashed  upon  the  landlady's  mind,  and  she  exclaimed,  "  I 
only  thought,  Sir,  you  might  prefer  the  stables  ;  of  course, 
it  is  as  you  please  —  this  way,  Sir.  He  is  a  fine  animal, 
Indeed,  and  seems  mild." 

"  You  may  bring  up  the  bundle,  porter,"  quoth  the 
Pere  Noble.  "  Take  my  arm,  my  dear  ;  these  steps  are 
very  steep." 

The  landlady  threw  open  the  door  of  a  handsome  sit- 
ting-room— her  best :  she  pulled  down  the  blinds  to  shut 
out  the  glare  of  the  sun,  then,  retreating  to  the  thresh- 
old, awaited  further  orders. 

"Rest  yourself,  my  dear,"  said  the  Actor,  placing 
Sophy  on  a  couch  with  that  tender  respect  for  sex  and 
?hildhood  which  so  especially  belongs  to  the  high-bred. 
The  room  will  do,  ma'am.  I  will  let  you  know  later 
*vhether  we  shall  require  beds.  As  to  dinner,  I  am  not 
particular  —  a  cutlet  —  a  chicken — what  you  please  —  at 
seven  o'clock.  Stay,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  detaining 
you ;  but  where  does  the  Mayor  live  ?  " 

"  His  private  residence  is  a  mile  out  of  the  town  ;  but 
his  counting-house  is  just  above  the  Town  Hall  —  to  the 
right.  Sir!" 
"Name?" 
"  Mr.  Hartopp  1 " 

"  Hartopp  !  Ah  !  to  be  sure,  Hartopp.     His  political 
opinions,  I  think  are  (ventures  at  a  guess)  enlightened  I" 
Landlady.    "Yery  much    so,   Sir.     Mr.  Hartopp   w 
highly  respected." 


WHAT     WILL     HE    DO     WITH    IT?  253 

Waife.  "  Tne  chief  municipal  officer  of  a  town  so 
thriving  —  fine  shops  and  much  plate-glass  —  must  march 
with  the  times.  I  think  I  liave  heard  that  Mr.  Hartopp 
promotes  the  spread  of  intelligence  and  the  propagation 
of  knowledge." 

Landlady  (rathtr  puzzled).  "  I  dare  say,  Sir.  The 
Mayor  takes  great  interest  in  the  Gatesboro'  Athenaeum 
and  Literary  Institute." 

Waife.  "  Exactly  what  I  should  have  presumed  from 
his  character  and  station.  I  will  detain  you  no  longer^ 
ma'am"  (Duke  of  Beaufort  bow).  The  landlady  de- 
scended the  stairs.  •Was  her  guest  a  candidate  for  the 
representation  of  the  town  at  the  next  election  ?  March 
with  the  times  —  spread  of  intelligence  I  All  candidates 
she  ever  knew  had  that  way  of  expressing  themselves  — 
"March"  and  "Spread."  Not  an  address  had  parlia- 
mentary aspirant  put  forth  to  the  freemen  and  electors  of 
Gatesboro',  but  what  "March"  had  been  Introduced  by 
the  candidate,  and  "  Spread  "  been  suggested  by  the  com- 
mittee. Still  she  thought  that  her  guest,  upon  the  whole, 
looked  and  bowled  more  like  a  member  of  the  Upper 
House.  Perhaps  one  of  the  amiable  though  occasionally 
prosy  peers  who  devote  the  teeth  of  wisdom  to  the 
cracking  of  those  very  hard  nuts  —  "  How  to  educate  the 
masses,"  "What  to  do  with  our  criminals,"  and  such  like 
problems,  upon  which  already  have  been  broken  so  many 
jawbones  tough  as  that  with  which  Samson  slew  the 
Philistines. 

"  Oh,    grandfather,"   sighed    Sophy,     '  what   are   you 

1-22 


254  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

about  r  We  shall  be  ruined  —  you  too,  who  are  so  care. 
tul  not  to  get  into  debt.  And  what  have  we  left  to  pay 
the  people  here  ?  " 

"  Sir  Isaac  1  and  this ! "  returned  the  Comedian, 
touching  his  forehead.  "Do  not  alarm  yourself — stay 
here  and  repose — and  don't  let  Sir  Isaac  out  of  the  room 
on  any  account !  " 

He  took  off  his  hat,  brushed  the  nap  carefully  with  his 
sleeve,  replaced  it  on  his  head  —  not  jauntily  aside  —  not 
ike  a  jevne  premier,  but  with  equilateral  brims,  and  in 
composed  fashion,  like  a  pere  noble  —  then,  making  a 
sign  to  Sir  Isaac  to  rest  quiet,  he  passed  to  the  door ; 
there  he  halted,  and  turning  toward  Sophy,  and  meeting 
her  wistful  eyes,  his  own  eye  moistened.  "Ah  I "  he  mur- 
mured,, "  Heaven  grant  I  may  succeed  now,  for  if  I  do, 
tbev"<  you  shall  indeed  be  a  little  lady  I  " 

He  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Showing  with  what  success  Gentleman  W.-xife  assumes  the  pleasing 
part  of  Friend  to  the  Enlightenment  of  the  Age  and  the  Progress 
of  the  People. 

On  the  landing-pla'^e  Waife  encountered  the  Irish 
porter,  who,  having  left  the  bundle  in  the  drawing-room, 
was  waiting  patiently  to  ht  paid  for  his  trouble. 

The  Comedian  surveyed  the  good-humored,  slirewQ 
face,  on  every  line  of  which  was  written  the  golden  maxim. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  255 

"Take  things  asy."  "I  beg  your  pardon,  my  friend  ;  I 
had  almost  forgotten  you.  Have  you  been  long  in  this 
town  ?  " 

"  Four  years  —  and  long  life  to  your  honor  !  " 
"Do  you  know  Mr.  Hartopp,  the  Mayor  ? '' 
"Is   it  his  worship  the  Mayor  ?     Sure  and  it  is  the 
Mayor  as  has  made  a  man  of  Mike  Callaghan." 

The  Comedian  evinced  urbane  curiosity  to  learn  the 
history  of  that  process,  and  drew  forth  a  grateful  tale. 
Four  summers  ago  Mike  had  resigned  the  "first  gem  of 
the  sea  "  in  order  to  assist  in  making  hay  for  a  Saxon 
taskmaker.  Mr,  Hartopp,  who  farmed  largely,  had  em- 
ployed him  in  that  rural  occupation.  Seized  by  a 
malignant  fever,  Mr.  Hartopp  had  helped  him  through  it, 
and  naturally  conceived  a  liking  for  the  man  he  helped. 
Thus,  as  Mike  became  convalescent,  instead  of  passing 
the  poor  man  back  to  his  own  country,  which  at  that  time 
gave  little  employment  to  the  surplus  of  its  agrarian 
population  beyond  an  occasional  shot  at  a  parson,  an 
employment,  though  animated,  not  lucrative,  exercised 
Mike's  returning  strength  upon  a  few  light  jobs  in  hia 
warehouse  ;  and,  finally,  Mike  marrying  imprudently  the 
daughter  of  a  Gatesboro'  operative,  Mr.  Hartopp  set  him 
up  in  life  as  a  professional  messenger  and  porter,  patron- 
ized by  the  corporation.  The  narrative  made  it  evident 
that  Mr.  Hartopp  was  a  kind  and  worthy  man,  and  the 
Comedian's  heart  warmed  toward  him. 

"An  honor  to  our  species,  this  Mr.  Hartopp  !  "  said 
Waife,  striking  his  staff  upon  the  floor;    "I  covet  his 


256  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

acquaintance.     Would  he  see  you  if  you  called  at  hia 
counting-bouse  ? " 

Mike  replied  in  the  affirmative,  with  eager  pride,  "  Mr. 
Hartopp  would  see  him  at  once.  Sure,  did  not  the  Mayor 
know  that  time  was  money  ?  Mr.  Hartopp  was  not  a 
man  to  keep  the  poor  waiting." 

"  Go  down  and  stay  outside  the  hall  door ;  you  shall 
take  a  note  for  me  to  the  Mayor." 

Waife  then  passed  into  the  bar,  and  begged  the  favor 
of  a  sheet  of  note-paper.  The  landlady  seated  him  at 
her  own  desk,  and  thus  wrote  the  Comedian : 

"  Mr.  Chapman  presents  his  compliments  to  the  Mayor 
of  Gatesboro',  and  requests  the  honor  of  a  very  short  in- 
terview. Mr.  Chapman's  deep  interest  in  the  permanent 
success  of  those  literary  institutes  which  are  so  distin- 
guished a  feature  of  this  enlightened  age,  and  Mr.  Mayor's 
well-known  zeal  in  the  promotion  of  those  invaluable  so- 
cieties, must  be  Mr.  Chapman's  excuse  for  the  liberty  he 
ventures  to  take  in  this  request.  Mr.  C.  may  add  that 
of  late  he  has  earnestly  directed  his  attention  to  the  best 
means  of  extracting  new  uses  from  those  noble  but  unde- 
veloped institutions.  —  Saracen^s  Head,  etc." 

This  epistle,  duly  sealed  and  addressed,  Waife  delivered 
1,0  the  care  of  Mike  Callaghan  —  and  simultaneously  he 
astounded  that  functionary  with  no  less  a  gratuity  than 
half  a  crown.  Cutting  short  the  fervent  blessings  which 
this  generous  donation  naturally  called  forth,  the  Co- 
median said,  with  his  happiest  combination  of  suavity 
and  loftiness,  "And  should  the  Mayor  ask  you  what  son 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  257 

of  person  1  am  —  for  I  have  not  the  honor  to  be  known 
to  him,  and  there  are  so  many  adventurers  about,  that  he 
might  reasonably  expect  me  to  be  one — perhaps  you  can 
say  that  I  don't  look  like  a  person  he  need  be  afraid  to 
admit.  You  know  a  gentleman  by  sight  I  Bring  back 
an  answer  as  soon  as  may  be  ;  perhaps  I  shan't  stay  long 
in  the  town.  You  will  find  me  in  the  High  Street,  looking 
at  the  shops. '^ 

The  porter  took  to  his  legs — impatient  to  vent  his  over- 
flowing heart  upon  the  praises  of  this  munificent  stranger. 
A  gentleman,  indeed  —  Mike  should  think  so.  If  Mike's 
good  word  with  the  Mayor  was  worth  money,  Gentleman 
Waife  had  put  his  half-crown  out  upon  famous  interest. 

The  Comedian  strolled  along  the  High  Street,  and 
stopped  before  a  stationer's  shop,  at  the  window  of  which 
was  displayed  a  bill,  entitled, 

GATESBORO'  ATHEN.EUM  AND  LITERARY  INSTITUTE. 


LECTURE  ON  CONCHOLOGY, 

By  Professor  Long, 

Author  of  "  Researches  into  the  Natural  History  of  Limpets." 

Waife  entered  the  shop,  and  lifted  his  hat  —  "  Permit 
ne.  Sir,  to  look  at  that  hand-bill." 

"  Certainly,  Sir  ;  but  the  lecture  is  over  —  you  can  see 
by  the  date';  it  came  off  last  week.  We  allow  the  bills 
of  previous  proceedings  at  our  Athenaeum  to  be  exposed 
at  the  window  till  the  new  bills  are  prepared  —  keeps  the 
whole  thing  alive,  Sir." 

22*  B 


258  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"  Concliology,"  said  the  Comedian,  "  is  a  subject  which 
requires  deep  research,  and  on  which  a  learned  man  may 
say  much  without  fear  of  contradiction.  But  how  far  is 
Gatesboro'  from  the  British  Ocean  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  exactly,   Sir  —  a  long  way." 

"  Then,  as  shells  are  not  familiar  to  the  youthful  re- 
membrances of  your  fellow-townsmen,  possibly  the  lecturer 
may  have  found  an  audience  rather  select  than  numerous." 

"  It  was  a  very  attentive  audience.  Sir  —  and  highly 
respectable  —  Miss  Grieve's  young  ladies  (the  genteelest 
seminary  in  the  town)  attended." 

Waife.  "  Highly  creditable  to  the  young  ladies.  But, 
pardon  me,  is  your  Athenaeum  a  3Iechamcs^  Institute  ?" 

Shopman.  "It  was  so  called  at  first.  But,  somehow 
or  other,  the  mere  operatives  fell  oflf,  and  it  was  thought 
advisable  to  change  the  word  '  Mechanics'  into  the  word 
'Literary.'  Gatesboro'  is  not  a  manufacturing  town,  and 
the  mechanics  here  do  not  realize  the  expectations  of  that 
taste  for  abstract  science  on  which  the  originators  of 
these  societies  founded  their  —  " 

Waife  (insinuatingly  interrupting),  "  Their  calculations 
of  intellectual  progress  and  their  tables  of  pecuniary  re- 
turn. Few  of  these  societies,  I  am  told,  are  really  self- 
supporting —  I  suppose  Professor  Long  is  I  —  and  if  he 
resides  in  Gatesboro',  and  writes  on  limpets,  he  is  proba- 
bly a  man  of  independent  fortune." 

Shopman.  "  Why,  Sir,  the  Professor  was  engaged  from 
London  —  five  guineas  and  his  travelling  expenses.  The 
funds  of  the  society  could  ill  afford  such  outlay  ;  but  we 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  259 

have  a  most  worthy  Mayor,  who,  assisted  by  his  foreman, 
Mr.  Williams,  our  treasurer,  is,  I  may  say,  the  life  and 
soul  of  the  institute." 

"A  literary  man  himself,  your  Mayor?" 

The  shopman  smiled.  "  Not  much  in  that  way.  Sir ; 
but  any  thing  to  enlighten  the  working  classes.  This  ia 
Professor  Long's  great  work  upon  limpets,  2  vols,  post 
octavo.  The  Mayor  has  just  presented  it  to  the  library 
of  the  Institute.  I  was  cutting  the  leaves  when  you 
came  in." 

"  Yery  prudent  in  you,  Sir.  If  limpets  were  but  able 
to  read  printed  characters  in  the  English  tongue,  this  work 
would  have  more  interest  for  them  than  the  ablest  inves- 
tigations upon  the  political  and  social  condition  of  man. 
But,"  added  the  Comedian,  shaking  his  head  mournfully, 
"  the  human  species  is  not  testaceous — and  what  the  his- 
tory of  man  might  be  to  a  limpet,  the  history  of  limpets 
is  to  a  man.  So  saying,  Mr.  Waife  bought  a  sheet  of 
card -board  and  some  gilt-foil,  relifted  his  hat,  and 
walked  out. 

The  shopman  scratched  his  head  thoughtfully ;  he 
glanced  from  his  window  at  the  form  of  the  receding 
stranger,  and  mechanically  resumed  the  task  of  cutting 
those  leaves,  which,  had  the  volumes  reached  the  shelves 
of  the  library  uncut,  would  have  so  remained  to  the  crack 
of  doom. 

Mike  Callaghan  now  came  in  sight,  striding  fast.  "  Mr. 
Mayor  sends  his  love  —  bother-o'-me  —  his  respex  ;  and 
will  be  happy  to  see  your  honor." 


260  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

In  three  minutes  more  the  Comedian  was  seated  in  a 
little  parlor  that  adjoined  Mr.  Hartopp's  counting-house 
—  Mr.  Hartopp  seated  also,  vis-d-vis.  The  Mayor  had 
one  of  those  countenances  upon  which  good-nature  throws 
a  sunshine  softer  than  Claude  ever  shed  upon  canvas. 
Josiah  Hartopp  had  risen  in  life  by  little  other  art  than 
that  of  quiet  kindliness.  As  a  boy  at  school,  he  had  been 
ever  ready  to  do  a  good  turn  to  his  school-fellow;  and 
his  school-fellows  at  last  formed  themselves  into  a  kind 
of  police,  for  the  purpose  of  protecting  Jos.  Hartopp's 
pence  and  person  from  the  fists  and  fingers  of  each  other. 
He  was  evidently  so  anxious  to  please  his  master,  not 
from  fear  of  the  rod,  but  the  desire  to  spare  that  worthy 
man  the  pain  of  inflicting  it,  that  he  had  more  trouble 
taken  with  his  education  than  was  bestowed  on  the 
brightest  intellect  that  school  ever  reared  ;  and  where 
other  boys  were  roughly  flogged,  Jos.  Hartopp  was 
soothingly  patted  on  the  head,  and  told  not  to  be  cast 
down,  but  try  again.  The  same  even-handed  justice  re- 
turned the  sugared  chalice  to  his  lips  in  his  apprenticeship 
to  an  austere  leather-seller,  who,  not  bearing  the  thought 
to  lose  sight  of  so  mild  a  face,  raised  him  into  partnership, 
and  ultimately  made  him  his  son-in-law  and  residuary 
legatee.  Then  Mr.  Hartopp  yielded  to  the  advice  of 
friends  who  desired  his  exaltation,  and  from  a  leather- 
seller  became  a  tanner.  Hides  themselves  softened  their 
asperity  to  tliat  gentle  dealer,  and  melted  into  golden 
fleeces.  He  became  rich  enough  to  hire  a  farm  for  health 
and  recreation.    He  knew  little  of  husbandry,  but  he  won 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  261 

the  heart  of  a  bailiff  who  might  have  reared  a  turnip  from 
a  deal  table.  Gradually  the  farm  became  his  fee-simple, 
and  the  farm-house  expanded  into  a  villa.  Wealth  and 
honors  flowed  in  from  a  brimmed  horn.  The  surliest  man 
in  the  town  would  have  been  ashamed  of  saying  a  rude 
thing  to  Jos.  Hartopp.  If  he  spoke  in  public,  though 
he  hummed  and  hawed  lamentably,  no  one  was  so  respect- 
fully listened  to.  As  for  the  parliamentary  representation 
of  the  town,  he  could  have  returned  himself  for  one  seat 
and  Mike  Callaghan  for  the  other,  had  he  been  so  dis- 
posed. But  he  was  too  full  of  the  milk  of  humanity  to 
admit  into  his  veins  a  drop  from  the  gall  of  party.  He 
suffered  others  to  legislate  for  his  native  land,  and  (except 
on  one  occasion,  when  he  had  been  persuaded  to  assist  in 
canvassing,  not  indeed  the  electors  of  Gatesboro',  but 
those  of  a  distant  town  in  which  he  possessed  some  influ- 
ence, on  behalf  of  a  certain  eminent  orator),  Jos.  Hartopp 
was  only  visible  in  politics  whenever  Parliament  was  to 
be  petitioned  in  favor  of  some  humane  measure,  or  against 
a  tax  that  would  have  harassed  the  poor. 

If  any  thing  went  wrong  with  him  in  his  business,  the 
whole  town  combined  to  set  it  right  for  him.  Was  a 
child  born  to  him,,  Gatesboro'  rejoiced  as  a  mother.  Did 
measles  or  scarlatina  afflict  his  neighborhood,  the  first 
anxiety  of  Gatesboro'  was  for  Mr.  Hartopp's  nursery. 
No  one  would  have  said  Mrs.  Hartopp's  nursery ;  and 
when  in  such  a  department  the  man's  name  supersedes 
the  woman's,  can  more  be  said  in  proof  of  the  tenderness 
he  excit^^s  ?     In  short,  Jos.  Hartopp  was  a  notable  in- 


262  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Btance  of  a  truth  not  commonly  recognised,  viz.,  that 
affection  is  power,  and  that,  if  you  do  make  it  thoroughly 
and  unequivocally  clear  that  you  love  your  neighbors, 
though  it  may  not  be  quite  so  well  as  you  love  yourself — 
stilly  cordially  and  disinterestedly,  you  will  find  your 
neighbors  much  better  fellows  than  Mrs.  Grundy  gives 
them  credit  for  — but  always  provided  that  your  talents 
be  not  such  as  to  excite  their  envy,  nor  your  opinions  such 
as  to  offend  their  prejudices. 

Mr.  Hartopp.  "  You  take  an  interest,  you  say,  in 
literary  institutes,  and  have  studied  the  subject?" 

The  Comedian.  "  Of  late,  those  institutes  have  oc- 
cupied my  thoughts  as  presenting  the  readiest  means  of 
collecting  liberal  ideas  into  a  profitable  focus." 

Mr.  Hartopp.  "  Certainly  it  is  a  great  thing  to  bring 
classes  together  in  friendly  union." 

TuE  Comedian.   "For  laudable  objects." 
Mr.  Hartopp.  "  To  cultivate  their  understandings." 
The  Comedian.  "To  warm  their  hearts." 
Mr.  Hartopp.   "To  give  them  useful  knowledge." 
The  Comedian.   "And  pleasurable  sensations." 
Mr.  Hartopp.   "In  a  word,  to  instruct  them." 
The  Comedian    "And  to  amuse." 
"  Eh  !  "  said  the  Mayor —  "  amuse  !  " 
Now,  every  one  about  the  person  of  this  amiable  man 
was  on  the  constant  guard  to  save  him  from  the  injurious 
effects  of  his  own  benevolence;   and  accordingly  his  fore- 
man, hearing  that  he  was  closeted  with  a  stranger,  took 
ftlarm,  and  entered  on  pretense  of  asking  instructions  about 


WHAT    -WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  263 

an  oTder  for  hides  —  in  reality,  to  glower  upon  the  in- 
truder, and  keep  his  master's  hands  out  of  imprudent 
pockets. 

Mr.  Hartopp,  who,  though  not  brilliant,  did  not  want 
for  sense,  and  was  a  keener  observer  than  was  generally 
Bupposed,  divined  the  kindly  intentions  of  his  assistant, 
"A  gentleman  interested  in  the  Gatesboro'  Athenaeum. 
My  foreman,  Sir  —  Mr.  Williams,  the  treasurer  of  our 
Institute.     Take  a  chair,  Williams." 

"You  said  to  amuse,  Mr.  Chapman,  but  — " 

"  You  did  not  find  Professor  Long  on  conchology 
amusing  ?  " 

"Why,"  said  the  Mayor,  smiling  blandly,  "  I  myself  am 
not  a  man  of  science,  and  therefore  his  lecture,  though 
profound,  was  a  little  dry  to  me." 

"  ;Must  it  not  have  been  still  more  dry  to  your  work- 
men, Mr.  Mayor  ?  " 

"  They  did  not  attend,"  said  Williams.  "  TJp-hill  task 
we  have  to  secure  the  Gatesboro'  mechanics,  when  any 
thing  really  solid  is  to  be  addressed  to  their  understand- 
ings." 

"Poor  things,  they  are  so  tired  at  night, '^  said  the 
Mayor,  compassionately;  "but  they  wish  to  improve 
themselves,  and  they  take  books  from  the  library," 

"Novels,"  quoth  the  stern  Williams  —  "it  will  be  long 
before  they  take  out  that  valuable  '  History  of  Limpets.'  ' 

"  If  a  lecture  was  as  amusing  as  a  novel,  would  no 
they  attend  it?"  asked  the  Comedian. 

"  I  suppose  they  would,"  returned  Mr.  Williams.  "  But 
our  object  is  to  instruct;   and  instruction.  Sir — " 


264  WHAT     WIL/i    HE     DO     WITH    IT? 

"  Could  be  made  amusing.  If,  for  instance,  the  lec- 
turer could  produce  a  live  shell-fish,  and  by  showing  what 
kindness  can  do  to\Yard  developing  intellect  and  affection 
in  beings  without  soul,  make  man  himself  more  kind  to 
his  fellow-man  ?  " 

Mr.  Williams  laughed  grimly.     "  Well,  Sir," 

"This  is  what  I  should  propose  to  do." 

"  With  a  shell-fish  ! "  cried  the  Mayor. 

"No,  Sir;  with  a  creature  of  nobler  attributes  —  A 
DOG  ! " 

The  listeners  stared  at  each  other  like  dumb  animals  as 
Waife  continued : 

"  By  winning  interest  for  the  individuality  of  a  gifted 
quadruped,  I  should  gradually  create  interest  in  the 
natural  history  of  its  species.  I  should  lead  the  audience 
on  to  listen  to  comparisons  with  other  members  of  the 
great  family  which  once  associated  with  Adam.  I  should 
lay  the  foundation  for  an  instructive  course  of  natural 
history,  and  from  vertebrated  mammifers  who  knows  but 
we  might  gradually  arrive  at  the  nervous  system  of  the 
molluscous  division,  and  produce  a  sensation  by  the  pro- 
duction of  a  limpet !  " 

"  Theoretical,"  said  Mr.  Williams. 

"Practical,  Sir;  since  I  take  it  for  granted  that  the 
Athenaeum,  at  present,  is  rather  a  tax  upon  the  richer 
subscribers,  including  Mr.  Mayor." 

"Nothing  to  speak  of,"  said  the  mild  Hartopp. 
Williams  looked  toward  his  master  with  unspeakable 
love,  and  groaned.     "Nothing  indeed  —  oh  I" 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  265 

"These  societies  should  be  wholly  self-supporting," 
said  the  Comedian,  "  and  inflict  no  pecuniary  loss  upon 
Mr.  Mayor." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Williams,  "  that  is  the  right  principle. 
M:    Mayor  should  be  protected." 

"And  if  I  show  you  how  to  make  these  societies  self- 
supporting  —  " 

"  We  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you." 

"  I  propose,  then,  to  give  an  exhibition  at  your  rooms." 

Mr.  Williams  nudged  the  Mayor,  and  coughed,  the 
Comedian  not  appearing  to  remark  cough  or  nudge. 

"  Of  course  gratuitously.  I  am  not  a  professional  lec- 
turer, gentlemen." 

Mr.  Williams  looked  charmed  to  hear  it. 

"And  when  I  have  made  my  first  effort  successful,  as  I 
feel  sure  it  will  be,  I  will  leave  it  to  you,  gentlemen,  to 
continue  my  undertaking.  But  I  can  not  stay  long  here. 
If  the  day  after  to-morrow — " 

"  That  is  our  ordinary  soiree  night,"  said  the  Mayor. 
"But  you  said  a  dog,  Sir  —  dogs  not  admitted  —  Eh, 
Williams  ? " 

Mr.  Williams.  "A  mere  by-law,  which  the  sub-com- 
mittee can  suspend  if  necessary.  But  would  not  the  intro- 
duction of  a  live  animal  be  less  dignified  than — " 

"A  dead  failure,"  put  in  the  Comedian,  gravely.  The 
Mayor  would  have  smiled,  but  he  was  afraid  of  doing  so 
lest  it  might  hurt  the  feelings  of  Mr  Williams,  who  did 
not  seem  to  take  the  joke. 

1.  — 23 


266  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"We  are  a  purely  intellectual  body,"  said  the  latter 
gentleman,  "and  a  dog — " 

"A  learned  dog,  I  presume  ?  "  observed  the  Mayor. 

Mr.  Williams  (nodding).  "  Might  form  a  dangerous 
precedent  for  the  introduction  of  other  quadrupeds.  We 
might  thus  descend  even  to  the  level  of  a  learned  pig. 
We  are  not  a  menagerie,  Mr. —  Mr. — " 

"  Chapman,"  said  the  ^ayor,  urbanely. 

"  Enough,"  said  the  Comedian,  rising,  with  his  grand 
air  :  "if  I  considered  myself  at  liberty,  gentlemen,  to  say 
who  and  what  I  am,  you  would  be  sure  that  I  am  not 
trifling  with  what  /  consider  a  very  grave  and  important 
subject.  As  to  suggesting  anything  derogatory  to  the 
dignity  of  science,  and  the  eminent  repute  of  the  Gates- 
boro'  Athenaeum,  it  would  be  idle  to  vindicate  myself. 
These  gray  hairs  are — " 

He  did  not  conclude  that  sentence,  save  by  a  slight  wave 
of  the  hand.  The  two  burgesses  bowed  reverentially,  and 
the  Comedian  went  on: 

"  But  when  you  speak  of  precedent,  Mr.  Williams,  allow 
me  to  refer  you  to  precedents  in  point.  Aristotle  wrote 
to  Alexander  the  Great  for  animals  to  exhibit  to  the 
Literary  Institute  of  Athens.  At  the  colleges  in  Egypt, 
lectures  were  delivered  on  a  dog  called  Anubis,  as  inferior, 
I  boldly  assert,  to  that  dog  which  I  have  referred  to,  as 
an  Egyptian  College  to  a  British  Institute.  The  ancient 
Etrurians,  as  is  shown  by  the  erudite  Schweighaeuser,  in 
that  passage  —  you  understand  Greek,  I  presume,  Mr 
Williams?" 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  267 

Mr.  Williams  could  not  say  he  did. 

The  Comedian.  ''Then  I  will  not  quote  that  passage 
*n  Schweighaeuser  upon  the  Molossian  dogs  in  general, 
and  the  dog  of  Alcibiades  in  particular.  But  it  proves 
bej'ond  a  doubt  that,  in  every  ancient  literary  institute, 
learned  dogs  were  highly  estimated  ;  and  there  was  even 
a  philosophical  academy  called  the  Cynic  —  that  is.  Dog- 
gi:;h,  or  Dog-school,  of  which  Diogenes  was  the  most 
eminent  professor.  He,  you  know,  went  about  with  a 
lantern  looking  for  an  honest  man,  and  could  not  find  one  I 
Why  ?  Because  the  Society  of  Dogs  had  raised  hia 
standard  of  human  honesty  to  an  impracticable  height. 
But  I  weary  you ;  otherwise  I  could  lecture  on  in  this 
way  for  the  hour  together,  if  you  think  the  Gatesboro' 
operatives  prefer  erudition  to  amusement." 

"A  great  scholar,"  whispered  Mr.  Williams  aloud. 
"And  I've  nothing  to  say  against  your  precedents,  Sir. 
I  think  you  have  made  out  that  part  of  the  case.  But, 
after  all,  a  learned  dog  is  not  so  very  uncommon  as  to 
be  in  itself  the  striking  attraction  which  you  appear  to 
suppose." 

"  It  is  not  the  mere  learning  of  my  dog  of  which  I 
boast,"  replied  the  Comedian.  "  Dogs  may  be  learned, 
anc  men  too  ;  but  it  is  the  way  that  learning  is  imparted, 
whether  by  dog  or  man,  for  the  edification  of  the  masses, 
in  order,  as  Pope  expresses  himself,  'to  raise  the  genius 
and  to  mend  the  heart,'  that  alone  adorns  the  possessor, 
exalts  the  species,  interests  the  public,  and  commands 
the  respect  of  such  judges  ao  I  see  before  me."  The 
grand  bow 


268  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"Ah  I"  said  Mr.  Williams,  hesitatingly,  "  sentimenta 
that  do  "honor  to  your  head  and  heart ;  and  if  we  could, 
in  the  first  instance,  just  see  the  dog  privately." 

"  Nothing  easier  !  "  said  the  Comedian.  "Will  you  do 
me  the  honor  to  meet  him  at  tea  this  evening  ? " 

"  Rather  will  you  not  come  and  take  tea  at  my  house  ?  " 
said  the  Mayor,  with  a  shy  glance  toward  Mr.  Williams. 

The  Comedian.  "  You  are  very  kind  ;  but  my  time  is 
so  occupied  that  I  have  long  since  made  it  a  rule  to  de- 
cline all  private  invitations  out  of  my  own  home.  At 
my  years,  Mr.  Mayor,  one  may  be  excused  for  taking 
leave  of  society  and  its  forms  ;  but  you  are  comparatively 
young  men.  I  presume  on  the  authority  of  these  gray 
hairs,  and  I  shall  expect  you  this  evening  —  say  at  nine 
o'clock."  The  Actor  waved  his  hand  graciously,  and 
withdrew. 

"A  scholar  and  a  gentleman,"  said  Williams,  emphati- 
cally. And  the  Mayor,  thus  authorized  to  allow  vent  to 
his  kindly  heart,  added,  "A  humorist,  and  a  pleasant  one. 
Perhaps  he  is  right,  and  our  poor  operatives  would  thank 
us  more  for  a  little  innocent  amusement  than  for  those 
lectures,  which  they  may  be  excused  for  thinking  rather 
dull,  since  even  you  fell  asleep  when  Professor  Long  got 
into  the  multilocular  shell  of  the  very  first  class  of  cepha- 
lous  mollusca ;  and  it  is  my  belief  that  harmless  laughter 
has  a  moral  effect  upon  the  working  class  —  only  don't 
spread  it  about  that  I  said  so,  for  we  know  excellent 
persons  of  a  serious  turn  of  mind,  whose  opinions  that 
fertntiment  might  shock." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  26^ 


CHAPTER   XI. 

Historical  Problem.  *'  Is  Gentleman  Waife  a  swindler  or  a  man 
of  genius?"  Answer.  —  "Certainly  a  swindler,  if  he  don't 
succeed."  Julius  Coesar  owed  two  millions  when  he  risked  the 
experiment  of  being  general  in  Gaul.  If  Julius  Caesar  had  not 
lived  to  cross  the  Rubicon  and  pay  ofi"  his  debts,  what  would  hia 
creditors  have  called  Julius  Cassar  ? 

I  NEED  not  say  that  Mr.  Hartopp  and  his  foreman  came 
duly  to  tea,  but  the  Comedian  exhibited  Sir  Isaac's  talents 
very  sparingly — just  enough  to  excite  admiration  v/ith- 
out  sating  curiosity.  Sophy,  whose  pretty  face  and  well- 
bred  air  were  not  unappreciated,  was  dismissed  early  to 
bed  by  a  sign  from  her  grandfather,  and  the  Comedian 
then  exerted  his  powers  to  entertain  his  visitors,  so  that 
even  Sir  Isaac  was  soon  forgotten.  Hard  task,  by 
writing,  to  convey  a  fair  idea  of  this  singular  vagrant's 
pleasant  vein.  It  was  not  so  much  what  he  said  as  the 
way  of  saying  it,  which  gave  to  his  desultory  talk  the 
charm  of  humor.  He  had  certainly  seen  an  immense  deal 
of  life  somehow  or  other  ;  and  without  appearing  at  the 
time  to  profit  much  by  observation,  without  perhaps 
being  himself  conscious  that  he  did  profit,  there  was 
something  in  the  very  enfantillage  of  his  loosest  prattle, 
by  which,  with  a  glance  of  the  one  lustrous  eye,  and  a 
twist  of  the  mobile  lip,  he  could  convey  the  impression 
23* 


270  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

of  an  original  genius  playing  with  this  round  world  of 
ours  —  tossing  it  up,  catching  it  again  —  easily  as  a  child 
plays  with  his  party-colored  ball.  His  mere  book-know- 
ledge was  not  much  to  boast  of,  though  early  in  life  he 
must  have  received  a  fair  education.  He  had  a  smatter- 
ing of  the  ancient  classics,  sufficient,  perhaps,  to  startle 
the  unlearned.  If  he  had  not  read  them,  he  had  read 
about  them  ;  and  at  various  odds  and  ends  of  his  life  he 
had  picked  up  acquaintance  with  the  popular  standard 
modern  writers.  But  literature  with  him  was  the  smallest 
stripe  in  the  party-colored  ball.  Still  it  was  astonishing 
how  far  and  wide  the  Comedian  could  spread  the  sands 
of  lore  that  the  winds  had  drifted  round  the  door  of  his 
playful,  busy  intellect.  Where,  for  instance,  could  he  ever 
have  studied  the  nature  and  prospects  of  Mechanics* 
Institutes  ?  and  yet  how  well  he  seemed  to  understand 
them.  Here,  perhaps,  his  experience  in  one  kind  of 
audience  helped  him  to  the  key  to  all  miscellaneous  assem- 
blages. In  fine,  the  man  was  an  actor;  and  if  he  had 
thought  fit  to  act  the  part  of  Professor  Long  himself,  he 
would  have  done  it  to  the  life. 

The  two  burghers  had  not  spent  so  pleasant  an  evening 
for  many  years.  As  the  clock  struck  twelve,  the  Mayor, 
whose  gig  had  been  in  waiting  a  whole  hour  to  take  him 
to  his  villa,  rose  reluctantly  to  depart. 

"And,"  said  Williams,  "  the  bills  must  be  out  to-morrow. 
What  shall  we  advertise  ? " 

"The  simpler  the  better,"  said  Waife  ;  "only  pray 
head  the  performance  with  the  assurance  that  it  is  under 
the  special  patronage  of  his  worship  the  Mayor." 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  211 

The  Major  felt  his  breast  swell  as  if  he  had  received 
Bome  overwhcliiiiiig  personal  obligation. 

"  Suppose  it  runs  thus,"  continued  the  Comedian  : 

"  Illustrations  from  Domestic  Life  and  Natural  History, 
with  LIVE  examples,  Part  First  —  The  Dog  !  " 

"  It  will  take,"  said  the  Mayor  ;  "dogs  are  such  popu- 
lar animals  ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  Williams ;  "  and  though  for  that  very  reason 
Fome  might  think  that  by  the  'live  example  of  a  dog'  we 
compromised  the  dignity  of  the  Institute  —  still  the  im- 
portance of  Natural  History — " 

"And,"  added  the  Comedian,  "  the  sanctifying  influences 
of  domestic  life — " 

"  May,"  concluded  Mr.  Williams,  "  carry  off  whatever 
may  seem  to  the  higher  order  of  minds  a  too  familiar 
attraction  in  the  —  dog  I  " 

"  I  do  not  fear  the  result,"  said  Waife,  "  provided  the 
audience  be  sufficiently  numerous  :  for  that  (which  is  an 
indispensable  condition  to  a  fair  experiment),  I  issue  hand- 
bills—  only  where  distributed  by  the  Mayor," 

"  Don't  be  too  sanguine.  I  distributed  bills  on  behaff 
of  Professor  Long,  and  the  audience  was  not  numerous. 
However,  I  will  do  my  best.  Is  there  nothing  more  in 
which  I  can  be  of  use  to  you,  Mr.  Chapman  ?  " 

"Yes,  later."  Williams  took  alarm,  and  approached 
the  Mayor's  breast-pocket  protectingly.  The  Comedian 
drew  him  aside  and  whispered,  "  I  intend  to  give  tlie 
Mayor  a  little  outline  of  the  exhibition,  and  bring  him 
into  it,  in  order  that  his  fellow-townsmen  may  signify 


2Y2  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

their  regard  for  him  by  a  cheer  :  it  will  please  his  good 
heart  and  be  touching,  you'll  see  —  mum!"  Williams 
shook  the  Comedian  by  the  hand,  relieved,  affected,  and 
confiding. 

The  visitors  departed  ;  and  the  Comedian  lighted  his 
hand- candlestick,  whistled  to  Sir  Isaac,  and  went  to  bed, 
without  one  compunctious  thought  upon  the  growth  of 
his  bill  and  the  deficit  in  his  pockets.  And  yet  it  was 
true,  as  Sophy  implied^  that  the  Comedian  had  an  honest 
horror  of  incurring  debt.  He  generally  thought  twice 
before  he  risked  owing  even  the  most  trifling  bill ;  and 
when  the  bill  came  in,  if  it  left  him  penniless,  it  was  paid. 
And  now,  what  reckless  extravagance  !  The  best  apart- 
ments I  dinners — tea — in  the  first  hotel  of  the  town  !  half 
a  crown  to  a  porter  1  That  lavish  mode  of  life  renewed 
with  the  dawning  sun  ! — not  a  care  for  the  morrow ;  and 
I  dare  not  conjecture  how  few  the  shillings  in  that  purse. 
What  aggravation,  too,  of  guilt !  Bills  incurred  without 
means  under  a  borrowed  name  !  I  don't  pretend  to  be 
a  lawyer ;  but  it  looks  to  me  very  much  like  swindling. 
Yet  the  wi'etch  sleeps.  But  are  we  sure  that  we  are  not 
shallow  moralists  ?  Do  we  carry  into  account  the  right 
of  genius  to  draw  bills  upon  the  Future  ?  Does  not  the 
most  prudent  general  sometimes  burn  his  ships  ?  Does 
not  the  most  upright  merchant  sometimes  take  credit  on 
the  chance  of  his  ventures  ?  May  not  that  peaceful  slum- 
Verer  be  morally  sure  that  he  has  that  argosy  afloat  in 
ais  own  head,  which  amply  justifies  his  use  of  "  the  Sara- 
cen's ? '-  If  his  ^  Ian  should  fail  ?     He  will  tell  you  that 


WHAT    WILL    HE     DO     WITH     IT?  273 

Is  impossible  !  But  if  it  should  fail,  you  say.  Listen  ; 
there  runs  a  story  —  (I  don't  vouch  for  its  truth.  I  tell 
it  as  it  was  told  to  me)  —  there  runs  a  story,  that  in  tie 
late  Russian  war  a  certain  naval  veteran,  renowned  for 
professional  daring  and  scientific  invention,  was  examined 
before  some  great  officials  as  to  the  chances  of  taking 
Cronstadt.  "If  you  send  me"  said  the  admiral,  "with 
so  many  ships-of-the-line,  and  so  many  gun-boats,  Cron- 
stadt,  of  course,  will  be  taken."  "But,"  said  a  prudent 
lord,  "  suppose  it  should  not  be  taken  ?  "  "  That  is  im- 
possible— it  must  be  taken  !  "  "  Yes,"  persisted  my  lord, 
"  you  think  so,  no  doubt ;  but  still,  if  it  should  not  be 
taken — what  then  ?  "  "  What  then  ! — why,  there's  an  end 
of  the  British  fleet  I "  The  great  men  took  alarm,  and 
that  admiral  was  not  sent.  But  they  mfsconstrued  the 
meaning  of  his  answer.  He  meant  not  to  imply  any  con- 
siderable danger  to  the  British  fleet.  He  meant  to  prove 
that  one  hypothesis  was  impossible  by  the  suggestion  of 
a  counter  impossibility  more  self-evident.  "  It  is  impos- 
sible but  what  I  shall  take  Cronstadt ! "  "  But  if  you 
don't  take  it  ?  "  "  It  is  impossible  but  what  I  shall  take 
it :  for  if  I  don't  take  it,  there's  an  end  of  the  British 
fleet ;  and  as  it  is  impossible  that  there  should  be  an  end 
of  the  British  fleet,  it  is  impossible  that  I  should  not  takr 
Cronstadtl"  — Q.  E.  D. 


« 


274  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 


CHAPTER   XII. 

[n  wliicb  every  thino;  depends  on  Sir  Isacac's  success  in  discovering 
the  Law  of  Attraction. 

On  the  appointed  evening,  at  eight  o'clock,  the  great 
room  of  the  Gatesboro'  Athenaeum  was  unusually  well 
filled.  Not  only  had  the  Mayor  exerted  himself  to  the 
utmost  for  that  object,  but  the  handbill  itself  promised  a 
rare  relief  from  the  prosiness  of  abstract  enlightenment 
and  elevated  knowledge.  Moreover,  the  stranger  himself 
had  begun  to  excite  speculation  and  curiosity.  He  was 
an  amateur,  not  a  cut-and-dry  professor.  The  Mayor  and 
Mr.  Williams  had  both  spread  the  report  that  there  was 
more  in  him  than  appeared  on  the  surface  :  prodigiously 
learned,  but  extremely  agreeable  —  fine  manners,  tool 
Who  could  he  be  ?  Was  Chapman  his  real  name  ?  etc., 
etc. 

The  Cometiian  had  obtained  permission  to  arrange  the 
room  beforehand.  He  had  the  raised  portion  of  it  for  his 
stage,  and  he  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  find  a  green 
curtain  to  be  drawn  across  it.  From  behind  this  screen 
he  now  emerged,  and  bowed.  The  bow  redoubled  the  first 
conventional  applause.  He  then  began  a  very  short  ad- 
dress —  extremely  well  delivered,  as  you  may  suppose,  but 
rather  in  the  conversational  than  the  oratorical  style.  He 
said  it  was  his  object  to  exhibit  the  intelligence  of  that 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  275 

Universal  Friend  of  Man  —  the  Dog  —  in  some  manner 
appropriate,  not  only  to  its  sagacious  instincts,  but  to  its 
afifectionate  nature,  and  to  convey  thereby  the  moral  that 
talents,  however  great,  learning,  however  deep,  were  of 
no  avail,  unless  rendered  serviceable  to  Man.  (Applause,  "1 
He  must  be  pardoned,  then,  if,  in  order  to  effect  this  )b' 
ject,  he  was  compelled  to  borrow  some  harmless  effects 
from  the  stage.  In  a  word,  his  Dog  would  represent  to 
them  the  plot  of  a  little  drama.  And  he,  though  he  could 
not  say  that  he  was  altogether  unaccustomed  to  puV)lic 
speaking  (liere  a  smile,  modest,  but  august  as  that  of  some 
famous  parliamentary  orator  who  makes  his  first  appear- 
ance at  a  vestry),  still  wholly  new  to  its  practise  in  the 
special  part  he  had  undertaken,  would  rely  on  their  indul- 
gence to  efforts  aspiring  to  no  other  merit  than  that  of 
aiding  the  Hero  of  the  piece  in  a  familiar  illustration  of 
those  qualities  in  which  Dogs  might  give  a  lesson  to  Hu- 
manity. Again  he  bowed,  and  retired  behind  the  curtain. 
A  pause  of  three  minutes  ;  the  curtain  drew  up.  Could 
that  be  the  same  Mr.  Chapman  whom  the  spectators  be- 
held before  them  ?  Could  three  minutes  suffice  to  change 
the  sleek,  respectable,  prosperous-looking  gentleman  wlio 
had  just  addressed  them,  into  that  image  of  threadbare 
p(,verly  and  hunger-pinched  dejection?  Little  aid  from 
theatrical  costume  :  the  clothes  seemed  the  same,  only  to 
have  grown  wondrous  aged  and  rusty.  The  face,  the 
figure,  the  man  —  these  had  undergone  a  transmutation 
oeyond  the  art  of  a  mere  stage  wardrobe,  be  it  ever  so 
amply  stored,  to  effect.     But  for  the  patch  over  the  eye 


276  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

you  could  not  have  recognized  Mr.  Chapman.  There  was 
indeed,  about  him  still  an  air  of  dignity  ;  but  it  was  thf 
dignity  of  woe  —  a  dignity,  too,  not  of  an  affable  civilian, 
but  of  some  veteran  soldier.  You  could  not  mistake. 
Though  not  in  uniform,  the  melancholy  man  must  have 
been  a  warrior  !  The  way  the  coat  was  buttoned  across 
the  chest,  the  black  stock  tightened  round  the  throat,  the 
shoulders  thrown  back  in  the  disciplined  habit  of  a  life, 
though  the  head  bent  forward  in  the  despondency  of  an 
eventful  crisis  —  all  spoke  the  decayed,  but  not  ignoble, 
hero  of  a  hundred  fields. 

There  was  something  foreign,  too,  about  the  veteran's 
air.  Mr.  Chapman  had  looked  so  thoroughly  English  — 
that  tragical  and  meagre  personage,  which  had  exfoliated 
an  arid  stem  from  Mr.  Chapman's  buxom  leaves,  looked 
so  unequivocally  French.  Xot  a  word  had  the  Comedian 
yet  said  ;  and  yet  all  this  had  the  first  sight  of  him  con- 
veyed to  the  audience.  There  was  an  amazed  murmur, 
then  breathless  stillness.  The  story  rapidly  unfolded  it- 
self, partly  by  words,  much  more  by  look  and  action. 
There  sate  a  soldier  who  had  fought  under  Napoleon  at 
Marengo  and  Austerlitz,  gone  through  the  snows  of  Mus- 
covy, escaped  the  fires  of  Waterloo  —  the  soldier  of  the 
Empire  I  Wondrous  ideal  of  a  wondrous  time  !  and  no- 
where winning  more  respect  and  awe  than  in  that  land  of 
the  old  English  foe,  in  which,  with  slight  knowledge  of 
the  Beautiful  in  Art,  there  is  so  reverent  a  sympathy  for 
all  that  is  grand  in  Man !  There  sate  the  soldier,  penni- 
less  and   friendless  —  there,  scarcely   seen,  reclined    hi8 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  27t 

grandchild,  weak  and  slowly  dying  for  the  want  of  f'^od; 
and  all  that  the  soldier  possesses  wherewith  to  buy  Ijread 
fur  the  day  is  his  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  It  was 
given  to  him  by  the  hand  of  the  Emperor  —  must  he  pawn 
or  sell  it  ?  Out  on  the  pomp  of  decoration  which  we  have 
substituted  for  the  voice  of  passionate  nature,  on  our  fal- 
len stage  !  Scenes  so  faithful  to  the  shaft  of  a  column  — 
dresses  by  which  an  antiquary  can  define  a  date  to  a  year ! 
Is  delusion  there  ?  Is  it  thus  we  are  snatched  from  Thebes 
to  Athens  ?  No ;  place  a  really  fine  actor  on  a  deal- 
board,  and  for  Thebes  and  Athens  you  may  hang  up  a 
blanket !  Why,  that  very  cross  which  the  old  soldier 
holds  —  away  from  his  sight  —  in  that  tremulous  hand,  is 
but  patched  up  from  the  foil  and  card-board  bought  at 
the  stationer's  shop.  You  might  see  it  was  nothing  more, 
if  you  tried  to  see.  Did  a  soul  present  think  of  such  mi- 
nute investigation  ?  Not  one.  In  the  actor's  hand  that 
trumpery  became  at  once  the  glorious  thing  by  which 
Napoleon  had  planted  the  sentiment  of  knightly  heroism 
in  the  men  whom  Danton  would  have  launched  upon  earth 
ruthless  and  bestial,  as  galley-slaves  that  had  burst  their 
chain. 

The  badge  wrought  from  foil  and  card-board  took  life 
and  soul ;  it  begot  an  interest,  inspired  a  pathos,  as  much 
as  if  it  had  been  made  —  oh,  not  of  gold  and  gems,  but 
of  flesh  and  blood.  And  the  simple  broken  words  that 
nlie  old  Man  addressed  to  it !  The  scenes,  the  fields,  the 
hopes,  the  glories  it  conjured  up  !  And  now  to  be  wrenched 
away  —  sold  to  supply  Man's  humblest,  meanest  wants  ^ 

I.  — 24 


its  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

sold — the  last  symbol  of  such  a  past  I  It  was  indeed 
*' propter  vitam  vivendi  perdere  causas.^^  He  would 
have  starved  rather  —  but  the  Child  ?  And  then  the  child 
rose  up  and  came  into  play.  She  would  not  suffer  such  a 
sacrifice  —  she  was  not  hungry  —  she  was  not  weak;  and 
when  voice  failed  her,  she  looked  up  into  that  iron  face 
and  smiled  —  nothing  but  a  smile.  Out  came  the  pocket- 
handkerchiefs  !  The  soldier  seizes  the  cross  and  turns 
away.  It  shall  be  sold  !  As  he  opens  the  door,  a  dog 
enters  gravely  —  licks  his  hand,  approaches  the  table, 
raises  itself  on  its  hind-legs,  surveys  the  table  dolefully, 
shakes  its  head,  whines,  comes  to  its  master,  pulls  him  by 
the  skirt,  looks  into  his  face  inquisitively. 

What  does  all  this  mean  ?  It  soon  comes  out,  and  very 
naturally.  The  dog  belonged  to  an  old  fellow-soldier, 
who  had  gone  to  the  Isle  of  France  to  claim  his  share  in 
the  inheritance  of  a  brother  who  had  settled  and  died 
there,  and  who,  meanwhile,  had  confided  it  to  the  care 
of  our  veteran,  who  was  then  in  comparatively  easy  cir- 
cumstances, since  ruined  by  the  failure  and  fraud  of  a 
banker  to  whom  he  had  intrusted  his  all ;  and  his  small 
pension,  including  the  yearly  sum  to  which  his  cross  en- 
titled him,  had  b«en  forestalled  and  mortgaged  to  pay 
the  petty  debts  which,  relying  on  his  dividend  from  the 
banker,  he  had  innocently  incurred.  The  dog's  owner 
had  been  gone  for  months ;  his  return  might  be  daily  ex- 
pected. Meanwhile  the  dog  was  at  the  hearth,  but  the 
wolf  at  the  door.  Now  this  sagacious  animal  had  been 
taught  to  perform  the  duties  of  messenger  and  major- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  279 

domo.  At  stated  intervals,  he  applied  to  his  master  for 
sous,  and  brought  back  the  supplies  which  the  sous  pur- 
chased. He  now,  as  usual,  came  to  the  table  for  the 
accustomed  coin — the  last  sou  was  gone — the  dog's  occu- 
pation was  at  an  end.  But  could  not  the  dog  be  sold  ? 
Impossible  —  it  was  the  property  of  another  —  a  sacred 
deposit ;  one  would  be  as  bad  as  the  banker  if  one  could 
apply  to  oue's  own  necessities  the  property  one  held  in 
trust.  These  little  biographical  particulars  came  out  in 
that  sort  of  bitter  and  pathetic  humor  which  a  study  of 
Shakspeare,  or  the  experience  of  actual  life  had  taught 
the  Comedian  to  be  a  natural  relief  to  an  intense  sorrow. 
The  dog  meanwhile  aided  the  narrative  by  his  by-play. 
Still  intent  upon  the  sous,  he  thrust  his  nose  into  his 
master's  pockets  —  he  appealed  touchingly  to  the  child, 
and  finally  put  back  his  head  and  vented  his  emotion  in  a 
lugubrious  and  elegiacal  howl.  Suddenly  there  is  heard 
without  the  sound  of  a  showman's  tin  trumpet  !  Whether 
the  actor  had  got  some  obliging  person  to  perform  on 
that  instrument,  or  whether,  as  more  likely,  it  was  but  a 
trick  of  ventriloquism,  we  leave  to  conjecture.  At  that 
note,  an  idea  seemed  to  seize  the  dog.  He  ran  first  to 
his  master,  who  was  on  the  threshold  about  to  depart ; 
pulled  him  back  into  the  center  of  the  room ;  next  he  ran 

to  the  child,  dragged  her  toward  the  same  spot,  though 

• 
with  great  tenderness,  and  then,  uttering  a  joyous  bark, 

he  raised  himself  on  his  hind  legs,  and,  with  incomparable 

solemnity,  performed  a  minuet  step  1     The  child  catches 

the  idea  from  the  dog.     "  Was  he  not  more  worth  seeing 


280  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

than  the  puppet-show  in  the  streets  ?  might  not  people 
give  money  to  see  him,  and  the  old  soldier  still  keep  his 
cross  ?  To-day  there  is  a  public  fete  in  the  gardens  yon- 
der ;  that  showman  must  be  going  thither ;  why  not  go 
too?"  What!  he,  the  old  soldier — he  stoop  to  show 
off  a  dog  1  he  !  he  !  The  dog  looked  at  him  depreca^ingly, 
and  stretched  himself  on  the  floor  —  lifeless  1 

Yes,  that  is  the  alternative  —  shall  his  child  die  too, 
and  he  be  too  proud  to  save  her  ?  Ah  !  and  if  the  cross 
can  be  saved  also  !  But  pshaw  !  what  did  the  dog  know 
that  people  would  care  to  see  ?  Oh,  much,  much.  When 
the  child  was  alone  and  sad,  it  would  come  and  play  with 
her.  See  these  old  dominos  1  She  ranged  them  on  the 
floor,  and  the  dog  leaped  up  and  came  to  prove  his  skill. 
Artfully,  then,  the  Comedian  had  planned  that  the  dog 
should  make  some  sad  mistakes,  attended  by  some  mar- 
vellous surprises.  No,  he  would  not  do  ;  yes,  he  would 
do.  The  audience  took  it  seriously,  and  became  intensely 
interested  in  the  dog's  success ;  so  sorry  for  his  blunders, 
so  triumphant  in  his  lucky  hits.  And  then  the  child  calmed 
the  hasty,  irritable  old  man  so  sweetly,  and  corrected  the 
dog  so  gently,  and  talked  to  the  animal  ;  told  it  how  much 
they  relied  on  it,  and  produced  an  infant  alphabet,  and 
spelled  out  "Save  us."  The  dog  looked  at  the  letters 
meditatively,  and  henxjeforth  it  was  evident  that  he  took 
more  pains.  Better  and  better ;  he  will  do,  he  will  do  ! 
The  child  shall  not  starve,  the  cross  shall  not  be  sold  ! 
Down  drops  the  curtain.  —  End  of  Act  I 

Act  II.   opens  with  a  dialogue  spoken  off  the  stage 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  28 1 

Invisible  dramatis  per sonce,  that  subsist,  witli  airy  tongues, 
upon  the  mimetic  art  of  the  Comedian.  You  understand 
that  there  is  a  vehement  dispute  going  on.  The  dog  must 
not  be  admitted  into  a  part  of  the  gardens  where  a  more 
refined  and  exclusive  section  of  the  company  have  hired 
seats,  in  order  to  contemplate,  without  sharing,  the  rude 
dances  or  jostling  promenade  of  the  promiscuous  merry- 
makers. Much  hubbub,  much  humor  ;  some  persons  for 
the  dog,  some  against  him  ;  privilege  and  decorum  here, 
equality  and  fraternity  there.  A  Bonapartist  colonel  sees 
the  cross  on  the  soldier's  breast,  and,  mille  tonnerres,  he 
settles  the  point.  He  pays  for  three  reserved  seats — one 
for  the  soldier,  one  for  the  child,  and  a  third  for  the  dog. 
The  veteran  enters  ;  the  child,  not  strong  enough  to  have 
pushed  through  the  crowd,  raised  on  his  shoulder,  Rolla- 
like  ;  the  dog  led  by  a  string.  He  enters  erect  and  war- 
rior-like ;  his  spirit  has  been  roused  by  contest ;  his  strug- 
gles have  been  crowned  by  victory.  But  (and  here  the 
art  of  the  drama  and  the  actor  culminated  toward  the 
highest  point)  —  but  he  now  at  once  includes  in  the  list 
of  his  dramatia  personce  the  whole  of  his  Gatesboro'  au- 
dience. They  are  that  select  company  into  which  he  has 
thus  forced  his  way.  As  he  sees  them  seated  before  him, 
so  calm,  orderly,  and  dignified,  mauvaise  honte  steals 
over  the  breast  more  accustomed  to  front  the  cannon  than 
the  battery  of  ladies'  eyes.  He  places  the  child  in  a  chair, 
abashed  and  humbled  ;  he  drops  into  a  seat  beside  her 
phriii kingly  ;  and  the  dog,  with  more  self-possession  and 
sense  of  his  own  consequence,  brushes  with  his  paw  some 
24* 


282  WHAT     WILL     HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

imaginary  dust  from  a  tliird  chair,  as  in  the  supercilious- 
ness of  the  well-dressed,  and  then  seats  himself,  and  looks 
round  with  serene  audacity. 

The  chairs  were  skilfully  placed  on  one  side  of  the 
staf^e,  as  close  as  possible  to  the  front  row  of  the  audience. 
The  soldier  ventures  a  furtive  glance  along  the  lines,  and 
then  speaks  to  his  grandchild  in  whispered,  bated  breath  : 
"  Now  they  are  there,  what  are  they  come  for  ?  To  beg  ? 
lie  can  never  have  the  boldness  to  exhibit  an  animal  for 
sous  —  impossible  ;  no,  no,  let  them  slink  back  again  and 
sell  the  cross."  And  the  child  whispers  courage  ;  bids  him 
look  again  along  the  rows ;  those  faces  seem  very  kind. 
He  again  lifts  his  eyes,  glances  round,  and  with  an  ex- 
temporaneous tact  that  completed  the  illusion  to  which 
the  audience  were  already  gently  lending  themselves,  made 
sundry  complimentary  comments  on  the  different  faces 
actually  before  him,  selected  most  felicitously.  The  au- 
dience, taken  by  surprise,  as  some  fair  female,  or  kindly 
burgess,  familiar  to  their  associations,  was  thus  pointed 
out  to  their  applause,  became  heartily  genial  in  their 
cheers  and  laughter.  And  the  Comedian's  face,  unmoved 
by  such  demonstrations  —  so  shy  and  sad  —  insinuated  its 
pathos  underneath  cheer  and  laugh.  You  now  learned 
through  the  child  that  a  dance,  on  which  the  company  had 
been  supposed  to  be  gazing,  was  concluded,  and  that  they 
would  not  be  displeased  by  an  interval  of  some  other 
diversion.  Now  was  the  time  !  The  dog,  as  if  to  convey 
a  sense  of  the  prevalent  ennui,  yawned  audibly,  patted 
the  child  on  the  shoulder,  and  looked  up  in  her  face.    "A 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  283 

game  of  dominos,''  whispered  tlie  little  girl.  The  d.-g 
gleefully  grinned  assent.  Timidly  she  stole  forth  the  old 
dominos,  and  ranged  them  on  the  ground  ;  on  which  «he 
slipped  from  her  chair ;  the  dog  slipped  from  his  ;  they 
began  to  play.  The  experiment  was  launched  ;  the  sol- 
dier saw  that  the  curiosity  of  the  company  was  excited — 
that  the  show  would  commence — the  sous  follow  ;  and  as 
if  he  at  least  would  not  openly  shame  his  service  and  his 
Emperor,  he  turned  aside,  slid  his  hand  to  his  breast,  tore 
away  his  cross,  and  hid  it.  Scarce  a  murmured  word  ac- 
companied the  action  —  the  acting  said  all ;  and  a  noble 
thrill  ran  through  the  audience.  Oh,  sublime  art  of  the 
mime  ! 

The  Mayor  sat  very  near  where  the  child  and  dog  were 
at  play.  The  Comedian  had  (as  he  before  implied  he 
would  do)  discreetly  prepared  that  gentleman  for  direct 
and  personal  appeal.  The  little  girl  turned  her  blue  eyes 
innocently  toward  Mr.  Hartopp,  and  said,  "  The  dog  beats 
me.  Sir ;  will  you  try  what  you  can  do  ?  " 

A  roar,  and  universal  clapping  of  hands,  amidst  which 
the  worthy  magistrate  stepped  on  the  stage.  At  the  com- 
mand of  its  young  mistress,  the  dog  made  the  magistrate 
a  polite  bow,  and  straight  to  the  game  went  magistrate 
and  dog.  From  that  time  the  interest  became,  as  it  were, 
personal  to  all  present.  "  Will  you  come,  Sir  ?  "  said  the 
child  to  a  young  gentleman,  who  was  straining  his  neck 
to  see  how  the  dominos  were  played  ;  "  and  observe  that 
it  is  all  fair.  You  too.  Sir  ? "  to  Mr.  Williams.  The 
Comedian  stood  beside  the  dog,  whose  movements  he 


284  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

directed  with  undetected  skill,  while  appearing  only  to  nx 
his  eyes  on  the  ground  in  conscious  abasement.  Those  on 
the  rows  from  behind  now  pressed  forward  ;  those  in  ad- 
vance either  came  on  the  stage,  or  stood  up  intently  con- 
templating. The  Mayor  was  defeated,  the  crowd  became 
too  thick,  and  the  caresses  bestowed  on  the  dog  seemed 
to  fatigue  him.  He  rose  and  retreated  to  a  corner  haugh- 
tily. "Manners,  Sir,"  said  the  soldier;  "it  is  not  for  the 
like  of  us  to  be  proud ;  excuse  him,  ladies  and  gentlemen." 
—  "  He  only  wishes  to  please  all,"  said  the  child,  depre- 
catingly.  "  Say  how  many  would  you  have  round  us  at  a 
time,  so  that  the  rest  may  not  be  prevented  '">eeing  you  ?" 
She  spread  the  multiplication  figures  before  the  dog ;  the 
dog  put  his  paw  on  10.  "Astonishing  !  "  said  the  Mayor. 
"  Will  you  choose  them  yourself,  Sir  ?  "  The  dog  nodded, 
walked  leisurely  round,  keeping  one  eye  toward  the  one 
eye  of  his  master,  and  selected  ten  persons,  among  whom 
were  the  Mayor,  Mr.  Williams,  and  three  pretty  young 
ladies,  who  had  been  induced  to  ascend  the  stage.  The 
others  were  chosen  no  less  judiciously. 

The  dog  was  then  led  artfully  on  from  one  accomplish- 
ment to  another,  much  within  the  ordinary  range  which 
bounds  the  instruction  of  learned  animals.  He  was  asked 
to  say  how  many  ladies  were  on  the  stage  ;  he  spelt  three. 
What  were  their  names  ?  "  The  Graces."  Then  he  waa 
asked  who  was  the  first  magistrate  in  the  town.  The  dog 
made  a  bow  to  the  Mayor.  "  What  had  made  that  gen- 
tleman first  magistrate  ?  "  The  dog  looked  to  the  alpha- 
bet and  spelt  "Worth."     "Were  there  any  persons  pre- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  285 

Bent  more  powerful  than  the  Mayor  ?  "  The  dog  bowed 
to  the  three  ladies.  "  What  made  them  more  powerful  ?  " 
The  dog  spelt  "  Beauty  "  When  ended  the  applause  these 
answers  received,  the  dog  went  through  the  musket  exer- 
cise with  the  soldier's  staff;  and  as  soon  as  he  had  per. 
formed  that,  he  came  to  the  business  part  of  the  exhibi- 
tion, seized  the  hat  which  his  master  had  dropped  on  the 
ground,  and  carried  it  round  to  each  person  on  the  stage. 
They  looked  at  one  another.  **  He  is  a  poor  soldier's 
dog,"  said  the  child,  hiding  her  face.  "  No,  no  ;  a  soldier 
can  not  beg,"  cried  the  Comedian.  The  Mayor  dropped 
a  coin  in  the  hat ;  others  did  the  same,  or  affected  to  do 
it.  The  dog  took  the  hat  to  his  master,  who  waved  him 
aside.  There  was  a  pause.  The  dog  laid  the  hat  softly 
at  the  soldier's  feet,  and  looked  up  to  the  child  beseech- 
ingly. 

"  What,"  asked  she,  raising  her  head  proudly — "what 
secures  Worth  and  defends  Beauty  ?  "  The  dog  took 
up  the  staff  and  shouldered  it.  And  to  what  can  the 
poldier  look  for  aid  when  he  starves,  and  will  not  beg  ? 
The  dog  seemed  puzzled  —  the  suspense  was  awful. 
"Good  Heavens,"  thought  the  Comedian,  "if  the  brute 
should  break  down  after  all  I — and  when  I  took  such  care 
that  the  words  should  lie  undisturbed  —  right  before  his 
nose  ! "  With  a  deep  sigh  the  veteran  started  from  his 
despondent  attitude,  and  crept  along  the  floor  as  if  for 
escape — so  broken  down,  so  crest-fallen.  Every  eye  was 
on  that  heart-broken  face  and  receding  figure ;  and  the 
eye  of  that  heart-broken  face  was  on  the  dog,  and  the 


286  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

foot  of  that  receding  figure  seemed  to  tremble,  recoil, 
start,  as  it  passed  by  the  alphabetical  letters  which  still 
lay  on  the  ground  as  last  arranged.  "Ah  !  to  what  should 
he  look  for  aid  ?  "  repeated  the  grandchild,  clasping  her 
little  hands.  The  dog  had  now  caught  the  cue,  and  put 
his  paw  first  upon  "Worth,"  and  then  upon  Beauty. 
"  Worth  !  "  cried  the  ladies — "  Beauty  !  "  exclaimed  the 
Mayor.  "  Wonderful,  wonderful !  "  "  Take  up  the  hat," 
said  the  child,  and  turning  to  the  Mayor — "Ah  !  tell  him, 
Sir,  that  what  Worth  and  Beauty  give  to  Yalor  in  distress 
is  not  alms,  but  tribute." 

The  words  were  little*  better  than  a  hack  claptrap  ;  but 
the  sweet  voice  glided  through  the  assembly,  and  found 
its  way  into  every  heart. 

"  Is  it  so  ?  "  asked  the  old  soldier,  as  his  hand  hover- 
ingly  paused  above  the  coins.  "  Upon  my  honor,  it  is, 
Sir,"  said  the  Mayor,  with  serious  emphasis.  The 
audience  thought  it  the  best  speech  he  had  ever  made  in 
his  life,  and  cheered  him  till  the  roof  rung  again.  "  Oh  ! 
bread,  bread,  for  you,  Darling  ! "  cried  the  veteran,  bow- 
ing his  head  over  the  child,  and  taking  out  his  cross  and 
kissing  it  with  passion  ;  "  and  the  badge  of  honor  still 
for  me  ! " 

While  the  audience  was  in  the  full  depth  of  its  emotion, 
and  generous  tears  in  many  an  eye,  Waife  seized  his 
moment,  dropped  the  actor,  and  stepped  forth  to  the  front 
as  the  man  —  simple,  quiet,  earnest  man  —  artless  man  ! 

"  Tliis  is  no  mimic  scene,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  It  is 
a  tale  in  real  life  that  stands  out  before  you.     I  am  here 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  287 

to  appeal  to  those  hearts  that  are  not  vainly  open  to 
human  sorrows.  I  plead  for  what  I  have  represented. 
True,  that  the  man  who  needs  your  aid  is  not  of  that  sol- 
diery which  devastated  Europe.  But  he  has  fought  in 
battles  as  severe,  and  been  left  by  fortune  to  as  stern  a 
desolation.  True,  he  is  not  a  Frenchman  :  he  is  one  of 
aland  you  will  not  love  less  than  France,  —  it  is  your 
own.  He,  too,  has  a  child  whom  he  w^ould  save  from 
famine.  He,  too,  has  nothing  left  to  sell  or  to  pawn  for 
bread  —  except — oh,  not  this  gilded  badge,  see,  this  is 
only  foil  and  card-board  —  except,  I  say,  the  thing  itself, 
of  which  you  respect  even  so  poor  a  symbol  —  nothing 
left  to  sell  or  to  pawn  but  Honor !  For  these  I  have 
pleaded  this  night  as  a  showman ;  for  these,  less  haughty 
than  the  Frenchman,  I  stretch  my  hands  toward  you  with- 
out shame;  for  these  I  rui  a  beggar." 

He  w^as  silent.  The  dog  quietly  took  up  the  hat  and 
approached  the  Mayor  again.  The  Mayor  extracted  the 
half-crown  he  had  previously  deposited,  and  dropped  into 
the  hat  two  golden  sovereigns.  Who  does  not  guess  the 
rest?  All  crowded  forward — youth  and  age,  man  and 
woman.  And  most  ardent  of  all  were  those  whose  life 
stands  most  close  to  vicissitude  —  most  exposed  to 
beggary  —  most  sorely  tried  in  the  alternative  between 
bread  and  honor.  Not  an  operative  there  but  spared  his 
raite. 


283  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

Omne   ignotum  pro  Magnifico  —  Rumor,   knowing  nothing  of  liig 
antecedents,  exalts  Gentleman  Waife  into  Don  Magnifico. 

The  Comedian  and  his  two  coadjutors  were  followed 
to  the  Saracen's  Head  Inn  by  a  large  crowd,  but  at  a 
respectful  distance.  Though  I  know  few  things  less 
pleasing  than  to  have  been  decoyed  and  entrapped  into 
an  unexpected  demand  upon  one's  purse  —  when  one  only 
counted,  too,  upon  an  agreeable  evening  —  and  hold, 
therefore,  in  just  abhorrence  the  circulating  plate  which 
sometimes  follows  a  popular  oration,  homily,  or  other 
eloquent  appeal  tjD  British  liberality ;  yet  I  will  venture 
to  say  there  was  not  a  creature  whom  the  Comedian  had 
surprised  into  impulsive  beneficence  who  regretted  his 
action,  grudged  its  cost,  or  thought  he  had  paid  too  dear 
for  his  entertainment.  All  had  gone  through  a  series  of 
such  pleasurable  emotions,  that  all  had,  as  it  were,  washed 
a  vent  for  their  gratitude  —  and  when  the  vent  was  found 
it  became  an  additional  pleasure.  But,  strange  to  say, 
no  one  could  satisfactorily  explain  to  himself  these  two 
questions — for  what,  and  to  whom,  had  he  given  his 
money  ?  It  was  not  a  general  conjecture  that  the  ex- 
hibitor wanted  the  money  for  his  own  uses.  No,  despite 
the  evidence  in  favor  of  that  idea,  a  person  so  respectable, 
so  dignified  —  addressing  them,  too,  with  that  noble  as 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  289 

Burance  to  which  a  man  who  begs  for  himself  is  not 
morally,  entitled  —  a  person  thus  characterized  must  be 
some  high-hearted  philanthropist  who  condescended  to 
display  his  powers  at  an  institute  purely  intellectual, 
perhaps  on  behalf  of  an  eminent  but  decayed  author, 
whose  name,  from  the  respect  due  to  letters,  was  delicately 
concealed.  Mr.  Williams  —  considered  the  hardest  head 
and  most  practical  man  in  the  town  —  originated  and 
maintained  that  hypothesis.  Probably  the  stranger  was 
an  author  himself — a  great  and  affluent  author.  Had 
not  great  and  affluent  authors  —  men  who  are  the  boast 
of  our  time  and  land  —  acted,  yea,  on  a  common  stage, 
and  acted  inimitably,  too,  on  behalf  of  some  lettered 
brother  or  literary  object  ?  Therefore  in  these  guileless 
minds,  with  all  the  pecuniary  advantages  of  extreme 
penury  and  forlorn  position,  the  Comedian  obtained  the 
respect  due  to  prosperous  circumstances  and  high  re- 
nown. But  there  was  one  universal  wish  expressed  by 
all  who  had  been  present,  as  they  took  their  way  home- 
ward —  and  that  wish  was  to  renew  the  pleasure  they  had 
experienced,  even  if  they  paid  the  same  price  for  it. 
Could  not  the  long-closed  theater  be  re-opened,  and  the 
great  man  be  induced  by  philanthropic  motives,  and  an 
assured  sum,  raised  by  voluntary  subscriptions,  to  gratify 
the  whole  town,  as  he  had  gratified  its  selected  intellect  ? 
Mr.  Williams,  in  a  state  of  charitable  thaw,  now  softest 
of  the  soft,  like  most  hard  men  when  once  softened,  sug- 
gested this  idea  to  the  Mayor.  The  Mayor  said,  eva- 
sively, that  he  would  think  of  it,  and  that  he  intended  to 
1—25  T 


290  WHAT     WILL     HE     DO    WITH     IT? 

pay  his  respects  to  Mr.  Chapman  before  he  returned 
home  —  that  very  night — it  was  proper.  Mr.  \^illiams 
and  many  others  wished  to  accompany  his  worship.  But 
the  kind  magistrate  suggested  that  Mr.  Chapman  would 
be  greatly  fatigued  ;  that  the  prei^ence  of  many  might  seem 
more  an  intrusion  than  a  compliment ;  that  he,  the  Mayor, 
had  better" go  alone,  and  at  a  somewhat  later  hour,  when 
Mr.  Chapman,  though  not  retired  to  bed,  might  have  had 
time  for  rest  and  refreshment.  This  delicate  considera- 
tion had  its  weight ;  and  the  streets  were  thin  when  the 
Mayor's  gig  stopped,  in  its  way  villa-ward,  at  the  Sara- 
cen's Head. 


CHAPTER  Xiy. 

It  is  the  interval  between  our  first  repinings  and  our  final  resigna- 
tion, in  which,  both  with  individuals  and  communities,  is  to  be 
found  all  that  makes  a  History  worth  telling.  Ere  yet  we  yearn 
for  what  is  out  of  our  reach,  we  are  still  in  the  cradle.  When 
wearied  out  with  our  yearnings,  Desire  again  falls  asleep — we 
are  on  the  death-bed. 

Sophy  (leaning  on  her  grandfather's  arm,  as  they  as- 
cend the  stair  of  the  Saracen's  Head.)  "But  I  am  so 
tired,  grandy  —  I'd  rather  go  to  bed  at  once,  please." 

Gentleman  Waife.  "  Surely  you  could  take  some- 
thing' to  eat  first  —  something  nice,  Miss  Chapman? 
(whispering  close)  We  can  live  in  clover  now"— a  phrase 
which  means  (aloud  to  the  landlady,  who  crossed  the  land- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  291 

Ing-place  above)  "grilled  chicken  aitd  muslirctoms  for 
supper,  ma'am  I  Why  don't  you  smile,  Sophy  ?  Oh,  dar- 
ling, you  are  ill  I  " 

"  No,  no,  grandy  dear  —  only  tired — let  me  go  to  bed. 
I  shall  be  better  to-morrow  —  I  shall  indeed  ! " 

Waife  looked  fondly  into  her  face,  but  his  spirits  were 
too  much  exhilarated  to  allow  him  to  notice  the  unusual 
flush  upon  her  cheek,  except  with  admiration  of  the  in- 
creased beauty  which  the  heightened  color  gave  to  her 
soft  features. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you  are  a  pretty  child  I  —  a  very 
pretty  child — and  you  act  wonderfully.  You  would  make 
a  fortune  on  the  stage,  but  — " 

Sophy  (eagerly),  "  But  no,  no,  never  I  —  not  the 
stage  ! " 

Waife.  "  I  don't  wish  you  to  go  on  the  stage,  as  you 
know.  A  private  exhibition  —  like  the  one  to-night,  for 
instance  —  has  (thrusting  his  hand  into  his  pocket)  much 
to  recommend  it." 

Sophy  (with  a  sigh).  "  Thank  Heaven,  that  is  over 
now,  and  you'll  not  be  in  want  of  money  for  a  long,  long 
time  !     Dear  Sir  Isaac  ! " 

She  began  caressing  Sir  Isaac,  who  received  her  atten- 
tions with  solemn  pleasure.  They  were  now  in  Sophy's 
room  ;  and  Waife,  after  again  pressing  the  child  in  vain 
to  take  some  refreshment,  bestowed  on  her  his  kiss  and 
blessing,  and  whistled  Malhrook  s^en  va-t-en  guerre  to 
Sir  Isaac,  who,  considering  that  melody  an  invitation   to 


292  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

supper,  licked  his 'lips,  and  stalked  forth,  rejoicing,  but 
decorous. 

Left  alone,  the  child  breathed  long  and  hard,  pressing 
her  hands  to  her  bosom,  and  sunk  wearily  on  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  There  were  no  shutters  to  the  window,  and  the 
moonlight  came  in  gently,  stealing  across  that  part  of  the 
wall  and  floor  which  the  ray  of  the  candle  left  in  shade. 
The  girl  raised  her  eyes  slowly  toward  the  window  —  to- 
ward the  glimpse  of  the  blue  sky,  and  the  slanting  lustre 
of  the  moon.  There  is  a  certain  epoch  in  our  childhood 
when  what  is  called  the  romance  of  sentiment  first  makes 
itself  vaguely  felt.  And  ever  with  the  dawn  of  that  senti- 
ment the  moon  and  the  stars  take  a  strange  and  haunting 
fascination.  Few  persons  in  middle  life  —  even  though 
they  be  genuine  poets — feel  the  peculiar  spell  in  the  severe 
stillness  and  mournful  splendor  of  starry  skies  which  im- 
presses most  of  us,  even  though  no  poets  at  all,  in  that 
mystic  age  when  childhood  nearly  touches  upon  youth, 
and  turns  an  unquiet  heart  to  those  marvelous  riddles 
within  us  and  without,  which  we  cease  to  conjecture  when 
experience  has  taught  us  that  they  have  no  solution  upon 
this  side  the  grave.  Lured  by  the  light,  the  child  rose 
softly,  approached  the  window,  and  resting  her  upturned 
face  upon  both  hands,  gazed  long  in  the  heavens,  com- 
muning evidently  with  herself,  for  her  lips  moved  and 
murmured  indistinctly.  Slowly  she  retired  from  the  case- 
ment, and  again  seated  herself  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  dis- 
consolate.    And  then  her  thoughts  ran  somewhat  thus, 


WHAT    ^YILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  295 

though  she  might  not  have  shaped  them  exactly  in  the 
same  words  :  "  No  1  I  can  not  understand  it.  Why  was 
I  contented  and  happy  before  I  knew  him?  Why  did  I 
see  no  harm,  no  shame  in  this  way  of  life  —  not  even  on 
that  stage  with  those  people — until  he  said,  '  It  was  what 
he  wished  I  had  never  stooped  to.'  And  grandfather 
says  our  paths  are  so  different,  they  can  not  cross  each 
other  again.  There  is  a  path  of  life,  then,  which  I  can 
never  enter ;  there  is  a  path  on  which  I  must  always, 
always  walk  —  always,  always,  always  that  path  —  no 
escape  !  Never  to  come  into  that  other  one  where  there 
is  no  disguise,  no  hiding,  no  false  names — never,  never  I" 
She  started  impatiently,  and  with  a  wild  look,  "It  is 
killing  me  ! " 

Then,  terrified  by  her  own  impetuosity,  she  threw  her- 
self on  the  bed,  weeping  low.  Her  heart  had  now  gone 
back  to  her  grandfather :  it  was  smiting  her  for  ingrati- 
tude to  him.  Could  there  be  shame  or  wrong  in  what  he 
asked — in  what  he  did  ?  And  was  she  to  murmur  if  she 
aided  him  to  exist  ?  What  was  the  opinion  of  a  stranger 
boy,  compared  to  the  approving,  sheltering  love  of  her 
sole  guardian  and  tried,  fostering  friend  ?  And  could 
people  choose  their  own  callings  and  modes  of  life  ?  If 
one  road  went  this  way,  another  that ;  and  they  on  the 
one  road  were  borne  farther  and  farther  away  from  those 
on  the  other  —  as  that  idea  came,  consolation  stopped, 
and  in  her  noiseless  weeping  there  was  a  bitterness  as  of 
despair.  But  the  tears  ended  by  relieving  the  grief  that 
25* 


294  WHAT     WILL     HE     DO     WITH    IT? 

caused  them.  Wearied  out  of  conjecture  and  complaint, 
her  mind  relapsed  into  the  old  native,  childish  submission. 
With  a  fervor  in  which  there  was  self-reproach,  she  re- 
peated her  meek,  nightly  prayer,  that  God  would  bless 
her  dear  grandfather,  and  suffer  her  to  be  his  comfort 
and  support.  Then  mechanically  she  undressed,  ex- 
tinguished the  candle,  and  crept  into  bed.  The  moon- 
light became  bolder  and  bolder :  it  advanced  up  the 
floors,  along  the  walls ;  now  it  floods  her  very  pillow, 
and  seems  to  her  eyes  to  take  a  holy,  loving  kindness, 
holier  and  more  loving  as  the  lids  droop  beneath  it.  A 
vague  remembrance  of  some  tale  of  "  Guardian  spirits," 
with  which  Waife  had  once  charmed  her  wonder,  stirred 
through  her  lulling  thoughts,  linking  itself  with  the  pre- 
sence of  that  encircling  moonlight.  There  I  see,  the  eye- 
lids are  closed — no  tear  upon  their  fringe.  See  the  dim- 
ples steal  out  as  the  sweet  lips  are  parted.  She  sleeps, 
she  dreams  already  1  Where  and  what  is  the  rude  world 
of  waking  now  ?  Are  there  Jiot  guardian  spirits  ?  Deride 
the  question  if  thou  wilt,  stern  man,  the  reasoning  and 
self-reliant ;  but  thou,  0  fair  mother,  who  hast  marked 
the  strange  happiness  on  the  face  of  a  child  that  has  wept 
itself  to  sleep  —  what  sayest  thou  to  the  soft  tradition, 
which  surely  had  its  origin  in  the  heart  of  the  earliest 
mother? 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  295 


CHAPTER  XV. 

There  is  no  man  so  friendless  but  what  he  can  find  a  friend  siucera 
enough  to  tell  him  disagreeable  truths. 

Meanwhile  the  Comedian  had  made  himself  and  Sir 
Isaac  extremely  comfortable.  No  unabstemious  man  by 
habit  was  Gentleman  Waife.  He  could  dine  on  a  crust, 
and  season  it  with  mirth  ;  and  as  for  exciting  drinks, 
there  was  a  childlike  innocence  in  his  humor  never  known 
to  a  brain  that  has  been  washed  in  alcohol.  But  on  this 
special  occasion,  Waife's  heart  was  made  so  bounteous 
by  the  novel  sense  of  prosperity  that  it  compelled  him  to 
treat  himself.  He  did  honor  to  the  grilled  chicken,  to 
which  he  had  vainly  tempted  Sophy,  He  ordered  half  a 
pint  of  port  to  be  mulled  into  negus.  He  helped  him- 
self with  a  bow,  as  if  himself  were  a  guest,  and  nodded 
each  time  he  took  ofi*  his  glass,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Your 
health,  Mr.  Waife  ! "  He  even  offered  a  glass  of  the  ex- 
hilatatiug  draught  to  Sir  Isaac,  who,  exceedingly  offended, 
retreated  under  the  sofa,  whence  he  peered  forth  through 
his  deciduous  ringlets,  with  brows  knit  in  grave  rebuke. 
Kor  was  it  without  deliberate  caution  —  a  whisker  first, 
and  then  a  paw — that  he  emerged  from  his  retreat,  when 
a  plate,  heaped  with  the  remains  of  the  feast,  was  placed 
upon  the  hearth-rug. 

The   supper  over  and  the  attendant  gone,  the  negua 


296  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Still  left,  Waife  lighted  lii^pipe,  and  gazing  on  Sir  Isaac, 
thus  addressed  that  canine  philosopher :  "  Illustrious 
member  of  the  Quadrupedal  Society  of  Friends  to  Man, 
and  as  possessing  those  abilities  for  practical  life  which 
but  few  friends  to  man  ever  display  in  his  service,  promo- 
ted to  high  rank —  Commissary  General  of  the  Victual- 
ing Department,  and  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  —  I 
have  the  honor  to  inform  you  that  a  vote  of  thanks  in 
your  favor  has  been  proposed  in  this  House,  and  carried 
unanimously."  Sir  Isaac,  looking  shy,  gave  another  lick 
to  the  plate,  and  wagged  his  tail.  "  It  is  true  that  thou 
wert  once  (shall  I  say  it  ?)  in  fault  at  '  Beauty  and 
Worth  ; '  thy  memory  deserted  thee  ;  thy  peroration  was 
on  the  verge  of  a  break-down  ;  but  '  Nemo  mortalium 
omnibus  horis  sapit,'  as  the  Latin  grammar  philosophically 
expresseth  it.  Mortals  the  wisest,  not  only  on  two  legs, 
but  even  upon  four,  occasionally  stumble.  The  greatest 
general,  statesman,  sage,  is  not  he  who  commits  no  blun- 
der, but  he  who  best  repairs  a  blunder,  and  converts  it  to 
success.  This  was  thy  merit  and  distinction  !  It  hath 
never  been  mine  I  I  recognize  thy  superior  genius.  I 
place  in  thee  unqualified  confidence  ;  and  consigning  thee 
to  the  arms  of  Morpheus,  since  I  see  that  panegyric  acts 
on  thy  nervous  system  as  a  salubrious  soporific,  I  n  )w 
move  that  this  House  do  resolve  itself  into  a  Committee 
of  Ways  and  Means  for  the  Consideration  of  the  Bud- 
get!'' 

Therewith,  while  Sir  Isaac  fell  into  a  profound  sleep, 
the    Comedian  deliberately  emptied  his  pockets   on  the 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  29T 

table ;  and  arranging  gold  and  silver  before  him,  thrice 
carefully  counted  the  total,  and  then  divided  it  into  sundry 
small  heaps. 

"That's  for  the  bill,"  quoth  he —  "  Civil  List  I  — a 
large  item.  That's  for  Sophy,  the  darling  I  She  shall 
have  a  teacher,  and  learn  French  —  Education  Grant. 
Current  Expenses  for  the  next  fortnight ;  Miscellaneous 
Estimates  —  tobacco  —  we'll  call  that  Secret  Service 
Money.  Ah,  scamp,  vagrant !  is  not  Heaven  kind  to  thee 
at  last  ?  A  few  more  such  nights,  and  who  knows  but 
thine  old  age  may  have  other  roof  than  the  work-house  ? 
And  Sophy  ?  Ah,  what  of  her  ?  Merciful  Providence, 
spare  ray  life  till  she  has  outgrown  its  uses ! "  A  tear 
came  to  his  eye ;  he  brushed  it  away  quickly,  and  re- 
counting his  money,  hummed  a  joyous  tune. 

The  door  opened  ;  Waife  looked  up  in  surprise,  sweep- 
ing his  hand  over  the  coins,  and  restoring  them  to  his 
pocket. 

The  Mayor  entered. 

As  Mr.  Hartopp  walked  slowly  up  the  room,  his  eye 
fixed  Waife's  ;  and  that  eye  was  so  searching,  though  so 
mild,  that  the  Comedian  felt  himself  change  color.  Hia 
gay  spirits  fell  —  falling  lower  and  lower,  the  nearer  the 
Mayor's  step  came  to  him  ;  and  when  Hartopp,  without 
speaking,  took  his  hand  —  not  in  compliment  —  not  in 
congratulation,  but  pressed  it  as  if  in  deep  compassion, 
still  looking  him  full  in  the  face,  with  those  pitying,  pene- 
trating eyes,  the  Actor  experienced  a  sort  of  shock,  as  if 
he  were  read  through,  despite  all  his  histrionic  disguises 


893  "WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

—  read  through  to  his  heart's  core  ;  and,  as  silent  as  his 
visitor,  sunk  back  on  his  chair  abashed — disconcerted. 

Mr.  Hartopp.  "Poor  man  !  " 

The  Comedian  (rousing  himself  with  an  effort,  but 
still  confused).  "  Down,  Sir  Isaac,  down  !  This  visit, 
Mr.  Mayor,  is  an  honor  which  may  well  take  a  dog  by 
surprise  !     Forgive  him  !  " 

Mr.  Hartopp  (patting  Sir  Isaac,  who  was  inquisitively 
sniffing  his  garments,  and  drawing  a  chair  close  to  the 
Actor,  who  thereon  edged  his  own  chair  a  littl-e  away  — 
in  vain ;  for,  on  that  movement,  Mr.  Hartopp  advanced 
in  proportion).  "Your  dog  is  a  very  admirable  and 
clever  animal ;  but  in  the  exhibition  of  a  learned  dog, 
there  is  something  which  tends  to  sadden  one.  By  what 
privations  has  he  been  forced  out  of  his  natural  ways  ? 
By  what  fastings  and  severe  usage  have  his  instincts 
been  distorted  into  tricks  ?  Hunger  is  a  stern  teacher, 
Mr.  Chapman  ;  and  to  those  whom  it  teaches,  we  cannot 
always  give  praise  unmixed  with  pity," 

The  Comedian  (ill  at  ease  under  this  allegorical  tone, 
and  surprised  at  quicker  intelligence  in  Mr.  Hartopp  than 
he  had  given  that  person  credit  for)  —  "  You  speak  like 
an  oracle,  Mr.  Mayor ;  but  that  dog,  at  least,  has  been 
mildl}  educated,  and  kindly  used.  Inborn  genius.  Sir, 
will  have  its  vent.  Hum  I  a  most  intelligent  audience 
honored  us  to-night ;  and  our  best  thanks  are  due  to  you." 

Mr.  Hartopp.  "  Mr.  Chapman,  let  us  be  frank  with 
each  other.  I  am  not  a  clever  man  —  perhaps  a  dull 
one.     If  I  had  set  up  for  a  clever  man  I  should  not  be 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH     IT?  299 

• 

where  I  am  now.  Husli  !  no  compliments.  But  my  life 
has  brouo-ht  me  into  frequent  contact  with  those  who 
suffer ;  and  the  dullest  of  us  gain  a  certain  sharpness  in 
the  matters  to  which  our  observation  is  habitiially  drawn. 
You  took  me  in  at  first,  it  is  true.  I  thought  you  were 
a  philanthropical  humorist,  who  might  have  crotchets,  as 
many  benevolent  men,  with  time  on  their  hands  and 
money  in  their  pockets,  are  apt  to  form.  But  when  it 
came  to  the  begging  hat  (I  ask  your  pardon  —  don't  let 
me  offend  you)  —  when  it  came  to  the  begging  hat,  I 
recognized  the  man  who  wants  philanthropy  from  others, 
and  whose  crotchets  are  to  be  regarded  in  a  professional 
point  of  view.  Sir,  I  have  come  here  alone,  because  I 
alone  perhaps  see  the  case  as  it  really  is.  Will  you  con- 
fide in  me  ?  you  may  do  it  safely.  To  be  plain,  who  and 
what  are  you  ?  " 

The  Comedian  (evasively).  "What  do  you  take  me 
for,  Mr.  Mayor  ?  What  can  I  be  other  than  an  itinerant 
showman,  who  has  had  resort  to  a  harmless  stratagem  in 
order  to  obtain  an  audience,  and  create  a  surprise  that 
might  cover  the  naked  audacity  of  the  '  begging  hat  ? '  " 

Mr.  Hartopp  (gravely).  "When  a  man  of  your  ability 
and  education  is  reduced  to  such  stratagems,  he  must  have 
committed  some  great  faults.  Pray  Heaven  it  be  no  worse 
than  faults  I" 

The  Comedian  (bitterly).   "That  is  always  the  way 
with  the  prosperous.     Is  a  man  unfortunate  —  they  say. 
Why  don't  he  help  himself? '     Does  he  try  to  help  him- 
self—  they  say,  'With  so  much  ability,  why  does  not  he 


300  WHAT     WILL     HE    DC     WITH    IT: 

• 

help  himself  better  ? '  Ability  and  education  !  Snares 
and  springes,  Mr.  Mayor  !  Ability  and  education  !  the 
two  worst  man-traps  that  a  poor  fellow  can  put  his  foot 
into  !  Aha  !  Did  not  you  say  if  you  had  set  up  to  be 
clever,  you  would  not  be  where  you  now  are  ?  A  wise 
saying ;  I  admire  you  for  it.  Well,  well,  I  and  my  dog 
have  amused  your  townsfolk  ;  they  have  amply  repaid  us. 
We  are  public  servants ;  according  as  we  act  in  public  — 
hiss  us  or  applaud.  Are  we  to  submit  to  an  inquisition 
into  our  private  character  ?  Are  you  to  ask  how  many 
mutton  bones  has  that  dog  stolen  I  how  many  cats  has  he 
worried  !  or  how  many  shirts  has  the  showman  in  his 
wallet  !  how  many  debts  has  he  left  behind  him  1  what  is 
his  rent-roll  on  earth,  and  his  account  with  heaven!  — 
go  and  put  those  questions  to  ministers,  philosophers, 
generals,  poets.  When  they  have  acknowedged  your  right 
to  put  them,  come  to  me  and  the  other  dog  !  " 

Mr.  Hartopp  (rising  and  drawing  on  his  gloves).  "  I 
beg  your  pardon  !  I  have  done.  Sir.  And  yet  I  conceived 
an  interest  in  you.  It  is  because  I  have  no  talents  myself 
that  I  admire  those  who  have.  I  felt  a  mournful  anxiety, 
too,  for  your  poor  little  girl  —  so  young,  so  engaging. 
And  is  it  necessary  that  you  should  bring  up  that  child 
in  a  course  of  life  certainly  equivocal,  and  to  females 
dangerous  ?" 

The  Comedian  lifted  his  eyes  suddenly,  and  stared  hard 
at  the  face  of  his  visitor,  and  in  that  face  there  was  so 
much  of  benevolent  humanity  —  so  much  sweetness  con- 
tending with  authoritative  rebuke  —  that  the  vagaboi.d's 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    11?  301 

hardihood  gave  way  ;  he  struck  his  breast  and  groaned 
aloud. 

Mr.  Hartopp  (}3ressing  on  the  advantage  he  had 
gained).  "And  have  you  no  alarm  for  her  health  ?  Do 
you  not  see  how  delicate  she  is  ?  Do  you  not  see  that  her 
very  talent  comes  from  her  susceptibility  to  emotions, 
which  must  wear  her  away  ?  " 

Waife.  "  No,  no  !  stop,  stop,  stop  I  you  terrify  me, 
you  break  my  heart.  Man,  man  I  it  is  all  for  her  that  I 
toil,  and  show,  and  beg  —  if  you  call  it  begging.  Do 
you  think  I  care  what  becomes  of  this  battered  hulk  ? 
Not  a  straw.  What  am  I  to  do  ?  What !  what !  You  tell 
me  to  confide  in  you  —  wherefore  ?  How  can  you  help 
me  ?  Who  can  help  me  ?  Would  you  give  me  employ- 
ment ?  What  am  I  fit  for  ?  Nothing  !  You  could  find 
work  and  bread  for  an  Irish  laborer,  nor  ask  w^ho  or  what 
he  was ;  but  to  a  man  who  strays  toward  you,  seemingly 
from  that  sphere  in  which,  if  Poverty  enters,  she  drops  a 
courtesy,  and  is  called  'genteel,'  you  cry,  *  Hold,  produce 
your  passport ;  where  are  your  credentials  —  references  ? ' 
I  have  none.  I  have  slipped  out  of  the  world  I  once 
moved  in.  I  can  no  more  appeal  to  those  I  knew  in  it 
than  if  I  had  transmigrated  from  one  of  yon  stars,  and 
said,  '  See  there  what  I  was  once  ! '  Oh,  but  you  do  not 
think  she  looks  ill !  — do  you  ?  do  you  ?  Wretch  that  I 
an  I     And  I  thought  to  save  her  I " 

The  old  man  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  his  cheek 
^■as  as  pale  as  ashes. 

Again  the  good  magistrate  took  his  hand,  but  this  time 

I.  — 26 


302  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

the  clasp  was  encouraging.  "  Cheer  up  ;  where  there  is 
a  will  there  is  a  way  ;  you  justify  the  opinion  I  formed  in 
your  favor,  despite  all  circumstances  to  the  contrary. 
When  I  asked  you  to  confide  in  me,  it  was  not  from 
curiosity,  but  because  I  would  serve  you,  if  I  can.  Ptc- 
flect  on  what  I  have  said.  True,  you  can  know  but  lit  lie 
of  me.  Learn  what  is  said  of  me  by  my  neighbors  before 
you  trust  me  further.  For  the  rest,  to-morrow  you  will 
have  many  proposals  to  renew  your  performance.  Excuse 
me  if  I  do  not  actively  encourage  it.  I  will  not,  at  least, 
interfere  to  your  detriment ;  but  — " 

**  But,"  exclaimed  Waife,  not  much  heeding  this  address 
— "  but  you  think  she  looks  ill  ?  you  think  this  is  injuring 
her?  you  think  I  am  murdering  my  grandchild  —  my 
angel  of  life,  my  all ! " 

''Not  so;  I  spoke  too  bluntly.     Yet  still—" 

"Yes,  yes;  yet  still — " 

"  Still,  if  you  love  her  so  dearly,  would  you  blunt  her 
conscience  and  love  of  truth  ?  Were  you  not  an  impostor 
to-night  ?  Would  you  ask  her  to  reverence,  and  imita.te, 
and  pray  for  an  impostor  ? " 

"I  never  saw  it  in  that  light  I"  faltered  Waife,  struck 
to  the  soul ;  never,  never,  so  help  me  Heaven  ! " 

''  I  felt  sure  you  did  not,"  said  the  Mayor  ;  "you  saw 
but  the  sport  of  the  thing ;  you  took  to  it  as  a  school- 
boy. I  have  known  many  such  men,  with  high  aniniaj 
spirits  like  yours.  Such  men  err  thoughtlessly  ;  but  did 
they  ever  sin  consciously,  they  could  not  keep  those  high 
spirits  1  Good-night,  Mr.  Chapman,  I  shall  hear  frori^ 
70U  again." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  303 

The  door  closed  on  the  form  of  the  visitor ;  Waife's 
head  sunk  on  his  breast,  and  all  the  deep  lines  upon  brow 
and  cheek  stood  forth,  records  of  mighty  griefs  revived 
< — a  countenance  so  altered,  now  that  its  innocent  arch 
pla}  was  gone,  that  you  would  not  have  known  it.  At 
length  he  rose  very  quietly,  took  up  the  candle,  and  stole 
into  Sopliy's  room.  Shading  the  light  with  careful  hand, 
he  looked  on  her  face  as  she  slept.  The  smile  was  still 
upon  the  parted  lip  —  the  child  was  still  in  the  fairy  land 
of  dreams.  But  the  cheek  was  thinner  than  it  had  been 
weeks  ago,  and  the  little  hand  that  rested  on  the  coverlet 
seemed  wasted.  Waife  took  that  hand  noiselessly  into 
his  own  ;  it  was  hot  and  dry.  He  dropped  it  with  a 
look  of  unutterable  fear  and  anguish ;  and  shaking  his 
head  piteously,  stole  back  again.  Seating  himself  by  the 
table  at  which  he  had  been  caught  counting  his  gains,  he 
folded  his  arms  and  rooted  his  gaze  on  the  floor ;  and 
there,  motionless,  and  as  if  in  stupefied  suspense  of 
thought  itself,  he  sate  till  the  dawn  crept  over  the  sky  — 
till  the  sun  shone  into  the  windows.  The  dog,  crouched 
at  his  feet,  sometimes  started  up  and  whined  as  to  attract 
his  notice  :  he  did  not  heed  it.  The  clock  struck  six,  the 
house  began  to  stir.  The  chambermaid  came  into  the 
room ;  AVaife  rose  and  took  his  hat,  brushing  its  nap  me- 
chanically with  his  sleeve.  "  Who  did  you  say  was  the 
best  here  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  vacant  smile,  touching  the 
chambermaid's  arm. 

"Sir!  the  best  — what?" 

"The  best  doctor,  ma'am — none  of  your  parish  apothe- 


304  WHAT     WILL     HE     DO     WITH     IT? 

caries  —  the  best  physician — Dr.  Gill — did  you  say  Gill  ? 
Thank  you  ;  his  address,  High  Street.  Close  by,  ma'am." 
With  his  grand  bow,  such  is  habit  I  —  Gentleman  Waife 
Bmiled  graciously,  and  left  the  room.  Sir  Isaac  stretched 
himself,  and  followed. 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

m  every  civilized  society  there  is  found  a  race  of  men  who  retain 
the  instincts  of  the  aboriginal  cannibal,  and  live  upon  their  fellow- 
men  as  a  natural  food.  These  interesting  but  formidable  bipeds, 
having  caught  their  victim,  invariably  select  one  part  of  his  body 
on  which  to  fasten  their  relentless  grinders.  The  part  thus  se- 
lected is  peculiarly  susceptible,  Providence  having  made  it  alive 
to  the  least  nibble ;  it  is  situated  just  above  the  hip-joint,  it  is 
protected  by  a  tegument  of  exquisite  fibre,  vulgarly  called  "  the 
Breeches  pocket."  The  thoroughbred  Anthropophagite  usually 
begins  with  his  own  relations  and  friends ;  and  so  long  as  he  con- 
fines his  voracity  to  the  domestic  circle,  the  Laws  interfere  little, 
if  at  all,  with  his  venerable  propensities.  But  when  he  has  ex- 
hausted all  that  allows  itself  to  be  edible  in  the  bosom  of  private 
life,  the  Man-eater  falls  loose  on  Society,  and  takes  to  prowling 
—  then  '* Sauve  qui  pent!"  the  Laws  rouse  themselves,  put  on 
their  spectacles,  call  for  their  wigs  and  gowns,  and  the  Anthro- 
pophagite turned  prowler  is  not  always  sure  of  his  dinner.  It  is 
when  he  has  arrived  at  this  stage  of  development  that  the  Man- 
eater  becomes  of  importance,  enters  into  the  domain  of  History, 
and  occupies  the  thoughts  of  Moralists. 

On  the  same  morning  in  which  Waife  thus  went  forth 
frcji  the  "  Saracen's  Head"  in  quest  of  the  doctor,  but  at 
a  later  hour,  a  man,  who,  to  judge  by  the  elaborate 
smartness  of  his  attire,  and  the  jaunty  assurance  of  his 
saunter,  must  have  wandered  from  the  gay  purlieus  of 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  305 

Regent  Street,  threaded  his  way  along  the  silent  and 
desolate  thoroughfares  that  intersect  the  remotest  districts 
of  Bloomsbury.  He  stopped  at  the  turn  into  a  small 
street  still  more  sequestered  than  those  which  led  to  it, 
and  looked  up  to  the  angle  on  the  wall  whereon  the  name 
of  the  street  should  have  been  inscribed.  But  the  wall 
had  been  lately  whitewashed,  and  the  whitewash  had 
obliterated  the  expected  epigraph.  The  man  muttered 
an  impatient  execration ;  and  turning  round  as  if  to  seek 
a  passenger  of  whom  to  make  inquiry,  beheld,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  way,  another  man  apparently  engaged 
in  the  same  research.  Involuntarily  each  crossed  over 
the  road  toward  the  other. 

"Pray,  Sir,"  quoth  the  second  wayfarer  in  that  desert, 
"  can  yon  tell  me  if  this  is  a  street  that  is  called  a  Place 

—  Poddon  Place,  Upper?" 

"  Sir,  returned  the  sprucer  wayfarer,  "  it  is  the  question 
I  would  have  asked  of  you." 

"  Strange  ! " 

"  Yery  strange  indeed  that  more  than  one  person  can, 
in  this  busy  age,  employ  himself  in  discovering  a  Poddon 
Place  1     Not  a  soul  to  inquire  of — not  a  shop  that  I  see 

—  not  an  orange  stall!" 

"  Ha  1 "  cried  the  other,  in  a  hoarse  sepulchral  voice — 
"Ha!  there  is  a  pot-boy  !  Boy  —  boy  —  boy!  I  say  ; 
Hold,  there  I  hold  1     Is  this  Poddon  Place  —  Upper  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  be,"  answered  the  pot-boy,  with  a  sleepy  air, 
caught  in  that  sleepy  atmosphere  ;  and  chiming  his  pewter 
against  an  area  rail  with  a  dull  clang,  he  chanted  forth 
26*  u 


30^  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

"Pots  oho  ! "  with  a  note  as  clirge-like  as  that  which  in 
the  City  of  the  Plague  chanted  "  Out  with  the  dead  !  " 

Meanwhile  the  two  wayfarers  exchanged  bows  and 
parted  —  the  sprucer  wayfarer,  whether  from  the  indul- 
gence of  a  reflective  mood,  or  from  an  habitual  indiffer- 
ence to  things  and  persons  not  concerning  him,  ceased  to 
notice  his  fellow-solitary,  and  rather  busied  himself  in 
sundry  little  coquetries  appertaining  to  his  own  person. 
He  passed  his  hand  through  his  hair,  rearranged  the  cock 
of  his  hat,  looked  complacently  at  his  boots,  which  still 
retained  the  gloss  of  the  morning's  varnish,  drew  down 
his  wristbands,  and,  in  a  word,  gave  sign  of  a  man  who 
desires  to  make  an  effect,  and  feels  that  he  ought  to  do  it. 
So  occupied  w^as  he  in  this  self-commune,  that  when  he 
stopped  at  length  at  one  of  the  small  doors  in  the  small 
street,  and  lifted  his  hand  to  the  knocker,  he  started  to 
see  that  Wayfarer  the  Second  w^as  by  his  side. 

The  tw^o  men  now  examined  each  other  briefly  but 
deliberately.  Wayfarer  the  First  was  still  young  —  cer- 
tainly handsome,  but  wdth  an  indescribable  look  about  the 
eye  and  lip,  from  which  the  other  recoiled  with  an  in- 
stinctive aw^e  —  a  hard  look,  a  cynical  look  —  a  sidelong- 
quiet,  defying,  remorseless  look.  His  clothes  were  so 
new  of  gloss,  that  they  seemed  put  on  for  the  first  time, 
were  shaped  to  the  prevailing  fashion,  and  of  a  taste  for 
colors  less  subdued  than  is  usual  with  Englishmen,  yet 
still  such  as  a  person  of  good  mien  could  wear  without 
incurring  the  charge  of  vulgarity,  though  liable  to  that 
of  self-conceit.     If  you   doubted  that  the  man  were  a 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  SOY 

gentleman,  you  would  have  been  puzzled  to  guess  what 
else  he  could  be.  Were  it  not  for  the  look  we  have 
mentioned,  and  which  was  perhaps  not  habitual,  his  ap 
pearance  might  have  been  called  prepossessing.  In  his 
figure  there  was  the  grace,  in  his  step  the  elasticity,  which 
come  from  just  proportions  and  muscular  strength.  In 
his  hand  he  carried  a  supple  switch  stick,  slight  and  in- 
nocuous to  appearance,  but  weighted  at  the  handle  after 
the  fashion  of  a  life-preserver.  The  tone  of  his  voice  was 
not  displeasing  to  the  ear,  though  there  might  be  some- 
thing artificial  in  the  swell  of  it  —  the  sort  of  tone  men 
assume  when  they  desire  to  seem  more  frank  and  off-hand 
than  belongs  to  their  nature  —  a  sort  of  rollicking  tone 
which  is  to  the  voice  what  swagger  is  to  the  gait.  Still 
that  look  !  —  it  produced  on  you  the  effect  which  might 
be  created  by  some  strange  animal,  not  without  beauty, 
but  deadly  to  man.  Wayfarer  the  Second  was  big  and 
burley,  middle-aged,  large-whiskered,  his  complexion 
dirty.  He  wore  a  wig  —  a  wig  evident,  unmistakable — ■ 
a  wig  curled  and  rusty  —  over  the  wig  a  dingy  white  hat. 
His  black  stock  fitted  tight  round  his  throat,  and  across 
his  breast  he  had  thrown  the  folds  of  a  Scotch  plaid. 

Wayfarer  the  FiRSt.  "  You  call  here,  too  —  on  Mrs. 
Crane  ?  " 

Waifarer  THE  Second.    "Mrs.  Crane?  —  you  too? 
Strange  I " 

Wayfarer  the   First    (with    constrained    civility) 
"Sir,  I  call  on  business  —  private  business." 

Wayfar;r  the  Second  (with  candid  surliness).    "So 
do  I." 


308  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Wayfarer  the  First.  "  Oh  ! " 

WAYFARER  THE  Second.   "Ha!  the  locks  unbar  I" 

The  door  opened,  and  an  old  meagre  woman-servant 
presented  herself. 

Wayfarer  the  First  (gliding  before  the  big  man 
with  a  serpent's  undulating  celerity  of  movement).  "  Mrs. 
Crane  lives  here?" — "Yes."  "She's  at  home,  I  sup- 
pose ?  "  —  "  Yes  I  "  "  Take  up  ray  card  ;  say  I  come 
alone  —  not  with  this  gentleman." 

Wayfarer  the  Second  seems  to  have  been  rather  put 
out  by  the  manner  of  his  rival.     He  recedes  a  step. 

"  You  know  the  lady  of  this  mansion  well.  Sir  ? " 

"Extremely  well." 

"  Ha  1  then  I  yield  you  the  precedence  ;  I  yield  it,  Sir, 
but  conditionally.     You  will  not  be  long  ?  " 

"  Not  a  moment  longer  than  I  can  help  ;  the  land  will 
be  clear  for  you  in  an  hour  or  less." 

"  Or  less,  so  please  you,  let  it  be  or  less.  Servant, 
Sir." 

"  Sir,  yours  —  Come,  my  Hebe  ;  track  the  dancers,  that 
is,  go  up  the  stairs,  and  let  me  renew  the  dreams  of  youth 
in  the  eyes  of  Crane  ! " 

The  old  woman,  meanwhile,  had  been  turning  over  the 
card  in  her  withered  palm,  looking  from  the  card  to  the 
visitor's  face,  and  then  to  the  card  again,  and  mumbling 
tc   herself.     At  length  she  spoke : 

•^  You,  Mr.  Losely  —  you  I  —  Jasper  Losely  I  how  you 
be  changed  !  what  ha'  ye  done  to  yourself?  where's  your 
comeliness  ?  where's  the  look  that  stole  ladies'  hearts  ?  — 
you,  Jasper  Losely  1  you  are  his  goblin  I " 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  309 

"  Hold  your  peace,  old  liussey  I "  said  the  visitor, 
evidently  annoyed  at  remarks  so  disparaging.  "I  am 
Jasper  Losely,  more  bronzed  of  cheek,  more  iron  of 
hand."  He  raised  his  switch  with  a  threatening  gesture, 
tliat  might  be  in  play ;  for  the  lips  wore  smiles,  or  might 
be  in  earnest,  for  the  brows  were  bent ;  and  pushing  into 
the  passage,  and  shutting  the  door,  said  — "  Is  your 
mistress  up  stairs?  show  me  to  her  room,  or  —  "  The 
old  crone  gave  him  one  angry  glance,  which  sunk 
frightened  beneath  the  cruel  gleam  of  his  eyes,  and  hasten 
ing  up  the  stairs  with  a  quicker  stride  than  her  age 
Keemed  to  warrant,  cried  out  —  *'  Mistress,  mistress  I  here 
is  Mr.  Losely  !  —  Jasper  Losely  himself  I  "  By  the  time 
the  visitor  had  reached  the  landing-place  of  the  first  floor, 
a  female  form  had  emerged  from  a  room  above; — a 
female  face  peered  over  the  banisters.  Losely  looked  up 
and  started  as  he  saw  it.  A  haggard  face  —  the  face  of 
one  over  whose  life  there  has  passed  a  blight.  When 
last  seen  by  him  it  had  possessed  beauty,  though  of  a 
masculine  rather  than  womanly  character.  Now  of  that 
beauty  not  a  trace  !  the  cheeks  sunken  and  hollow,  left 
the  nose  sharp,  long,  beaked  as  a  bird  of  prey.  The  hair, 
once  glossy  in  its  ebon  hue,  now  grizzled,  harsh,  neglected, 
hung  in  tortured  tangled  meshes  —  a  study  for  an  artist 
who  would  paint  a  fury.  But  the  eyes  were  bright  — 
brighter  than  ever ;  bright  now  with  a  glare  that  lighted 
up  the  whole  face  bending  over  the  man.  In  those  burn- 
ing eyes  was  there  love  ?  was  there  hate  ?  was  there 
welcome  ?  was  there  menace  ?  Inpossible  to  distinguish  ; 
but  at  least  one  might  perceive  that  there  was  joy. 


310  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"So,"  said  the  voice  from  above,  "so  we  do  meet  at 
last,  Jasper  Losely ;  you  are  come  ! " 

Drawing  a  loose  kind  of  dressing-robe  more  closely 
round  her,  the  mistress  of  the  house  now  descended  the 
stairs  —  rapidly,  fittingly,  with  a  step  noiseless  as  a 
spectre's,  and,  grasping  Losely  firmly  by  the  hand,  led 
him  into  a  chill,  dank,  sunless  drawing-room,  gazing  into 
his  face  fixedly  all  the  while. 

He  winced  and  writhed.  "There,  there,  let  us  sit 
down,  my  dear  Mrs.  Crane." 

"And  once  I  was  called  Bella." 

"Ages  ago  !  Basta!  All  things  have  their  end.  Do 
take  those  eyes  of  yours  off  my  face  ;  they  were  always  so 
bright ! — and  really  now  they  are  perfect  burning  glasses  I 
How  close  it  is.  Peuh  !  I  am  dead  tired.  May  I  ask 
for  a  glass  of  water  —  a  drop  of  wine  in  it  —  or — brandy 
will  do  as  well  ? " 

"  Ho  1  you  have  come  to  brandy,  and  morning  drams — 
eh,  Jasper  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Crane,  with  a  strange,  dreary  ac- 
cent. "I  too  once  tried  if  fire  could  burn  up  thought, 
but  it  did  not  succeed  with  me  ;  that  is  years  ago  ;  —  and 
—  there  —  see,  the  bottles  are  full  still  I  " 

While  thus  speaking,  she  had  unlocked  a  chiffonier  of 
the  shape  usually  found  in  "  genteel  lodgings,"  and  taken 
out  a  leather  spirit-case  containing  four  bottles,  with  a 
couple  of  wine-glasses.  This  case  she  placed  on  the 
table  before  Mr.  Losely,  and  contemplated  him  at  leisure 
while  he  helped  himself  to  the  raw  spirits. 

As  she  thus  stood,  an  acute  student  of  Lavater  might 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  311 

have  recognized,  in  her  harsh  and  wasted  countenance, 
signs  of  an  original  nature  superior  to  that  of  her  visitor  ; 
on  her  knitted  brow,  a  sense  higher  in  quality  than  on 
his  smooth,  low  forehead  ;  on  her  straight,  stern  lip,  less 
cause  for  distrust  than  in  the  false  good-humor  which 
curved  his  handsome  mouth  into  that  smile  of  the  fickle, 
which,  responding  to  mirth  but  not  to  affection,  is  often 
lighted  and  never  warmed.  It  is  true  that  in  that  set 
pressure  of  her  lip  there  might  be  cruelty,  and,  still  more, 
the  secretiveness  which  can  harbor  deceit ;  and  yet,  by 
the  nervous  workings  of  that  lip,  when  relieved  from  such 
pressure,  you  would  judge  the  woman  to  be  rather  by 
natural  temperament  passionate  and  impulsive  than  sys- 
tematically cruel  or  deliberately  false  —  false  or  cruel  only 
as  some  predominating  passion  became  the  soul's  absolute 
tyrant,  and  adopted  the  tyrant's  vices.  Above  all,  in 
those  very  lines  destructive  to  beauty,  that  had  been 
plowed,  not  by  time,  over  her  sallow  cheeks,  there  was 
written  the  susceptibility  to  grief,  to  shame,  to  the  sense 
of  fall,  which  was  not  visible  in  the  unreflective  reckless 
aspect  of  the  sleek  human  animal  before  her. 

In  the  room,  too,  there  were  some  evidences  of  a 
cultivated  taste.  On  the  walls,  book-shelves,  containing 
volumes  of  a  decorous  and  severe  literature,  such  as  care- 
ful parents  allow  to  studious  daughters  —  the  stately 
master-pieces  of  Fenelon  and  Racine  —  selections,  ap- 
proved by  boarding-schools,  from  Tasso,  Dante,  Metasta- 
gio  ;  —  among  English  authors,  Addison,  Johnson,  Blair 
'his  lectures  as  well  as  sermons)  —  elementary  works  on 


312  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

Bucli  sciences  as  admit  female  neophytes  into  their  porti- 
coes if  not  into  their  penetralia  —  botany,  chemistry,  as- 
tronomy. Prim  as  soldiers  on  parade  stood  the  books — 
not  a  gap  in  their  ranks  —  evidently  never  now  displaced 
for  recreation  —  well  bound,  yet  faded,  dusty; — relics 
of  a  by-gone  life.  Some  of  them  might  perhaps  have 
been  prizes  at  school,  or  birth-day  gifts  from  proud  rela- 
tions. There,  too,  on  the  table,  near  the  spirit-case,  lay 
open  a  once  handsome  work-box  —  no  silks  now  on  the 
skeleton  reels  —  discolored,  but  not  by  use,  in  its  nest  of 
tarnished  silk,  slept  the  golden  thimble.  There,  too,  in 
the  corner,  near  a  music-stand  piled  high  with  musical 
compositions  of  various  schools  and  graduated  com- 
plexity, from  "lessons  for  beginners  "  to  the  most  arduous 
gamut  of  a  German  oratorio,  slunk  pathetically  a  poor 
lute  harp,  the  strings  long  since  broken.  There,  too,  by 
the  window,  hung  a  vrire  bird-cage,  the  bird  long  since 
dead.  In  a  word,  round  the  woman  gazing  on  Jasper 
Losely,  as  he  complacently  drank  his  brandy,  grouped 
the  forlorn  tokens  of  an  early  state  —  the  lost  golden  age 
of  happy  girlish  studies,  of  harmless  girlish  tastes. 

"  Basta  —  eno',''  said  Mr.  Losely,  pushing  aside  the 
glass  which  he  had  twice  filled  and  twice  drained  —  "to 
bisiness.     Let  me  see  the  child  —  I  feel  up  to  it  now." 

A  darker  shade  fell  over  Arabella  Crane's  face  as  she 
fiaid : 

"  The  child  —  she  is  not  here  1  I  have  disposed  of  her 
long  ago." 

"Eh!  disposed  of  her  I  what  do  you  mean?'* 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  313 

"Do  you  ask  as  if  you  feared  I  had  put  her  out  of  the 
world?  No!  Well,  then  —  you  come  to  England  to 
see  the  child  ?  You  miss  —  you  love,  the  child  of  that  — 
of  that — "  She  paused,  checked  herself,  and  added  in  an 
altered  voice — "  of  that  honest,  high-minded  gentlewoman, 
whose  memory  must  be  so  dear  to  me  —  you  love  that 
child;  very  natural  Jasper." 

"  Love  her  !  a  child  I  have  scarcely  seen  since  she  was 
born!  —  do  talk  common  sense.  No.  But  have  I  not 
told  you  that  she  ought  to  be  money's  worth  to  me  —  ay, 
and  she  shall  be  yet,  despite  that  proud  man's  disdainful 
insolence." 

"  That  proud  man  —  what !  you  have  ventured  to  ad- 
dress him  —  visit  him  —  since  your  return  to  England  ?" 

"Of course.  That's  what  brought  me  over.  I  ima- 
gined the  man  would  rejoice  at  what  I  told  him  —  open 
his  purse-strings — lavish  blessings  and  bank-notes.  And 
the  brute  would  not  even  believe  me  —  all  because — " 

"  Because  you  had  sold  the  right  to  be  believed  before. 
I  told  you,  when  I  took  the  child,  that  you  would  never 
succeed  there  —  that  I  would  never  encourage  you  in  the 
attempt.  But  you  had  sold  the  future,  as  you  sold  your 
past  —  too  cheaply,  it  seems,  Jasper." 

"  Too  cheaply,  indeed.  Who  could  ever  have  supposed 
that  I  should  have  been  fobbed  off  with  such  a  pittance  ? " 

"  Who,  indeed,  Jasper  !  You  were  made  to  spend 
fortunes,  and  call  them  pittances  when  spent,  Jasper  1 
You  should  have  been  a  prince,  Jasper  —  such  princely 
tastes  !     Trinkets  and  dress,  horses  and  dice,  and  plenty 

T  -  27 


314  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

of  ladies  to  look  and  die  !  Such  princely  spirit  too  !  — 
bounding  all  return  for  loyal  sacrifice  to  the  honor  you 
vouchsafed  in  accepting  it !  " 

Uttering  this  embittered  irony,  which  nevertheless 
seemed  rather  to  please  than  to  offend  her  guest,  she  kept 
moving  about  the  room,  and  (whether  from  some  drawer 
in  the  furniture,  or  from  her  own  person,  Losely's  care- 
less eye  did  not  observe)  she  suddenly  drew  forth  a  minia- 
ture, and,  placing  it  before  him,  exclaimed,  "  Ah,  but  you 
are  altered  from  those  days  —  see  what  you  then  were  ! " 
Losely's  gaze  thus  abruptly  invited,  fixed  itself  on  the 
effigies  of  a  youth  eminently  handsome,  and  of  tl>at  kind 
of  beauty  which,  without  being  effeminate,  approaches  to 
the  fineness  and  brilliancy  of  the  female  countenance  —  a 
beauty  which  renders  its  possessor  inconveniently  con- 
spicuous, and  too  often,  by  winning  that  ready  admira- 
tion which  it  costs  no  effort  to  obtain,  withdraws  the  de- 
sire of  applause  from  successes  to  be  achieved  by  labor, 
and  hardens  egotism  by  the  excuses  it  lends  to  self-esteem. 
It  is  true  that  this  handsome  face  had  not  the  elevation 
bestowed  by  thoughtful  expression  ;  but  thoughtful  ex- 
pression is  not  the  attribute  a  painter  seeks  to  give  to  the 
abstract  comeliness  of  early  youth — and  it  is  seldom  to  be 
acquired  without  that  constitutional  wear  and  tear  which  is 
injurious  to  mere  physical  beauty.  And  over  the  whole  coun- 
tenance was  diffused  a  sunny  light,  the  freshness  of  thought- 
less health,  of  luxuriant  vigor,  so  that  even  that  arrogant 
vanity  which  an  acute  observer  might  have  detected  as  the 
prevailing  mental  characteristic,  seemed  but  a  glad  exalta- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  315 

tion  in  tne  gifts  of  benignant  nature.  Not  there  the  look 
which,  in  the  matured  man  gazing  on  the  bright  ghost  of 
his  former  self,  might  have  daunted  the  timid  and  warned 
the  wise.  "  And  I  was  like  this.  True  I  I  remember 
well  when  it  was  taken,  and  no  one  called  it  flattering," 
said  Mr.  Losely,  with  pathetic  self-condolence.  "  But  I 
can't  be  very  much  changed,"  he  added,  with  a  half 
laugh.  "At  my  age  one  may  have  a  manlier  look, 
yet—" 

"  Yet  still  be  handsome,  Jasper,"  said  Mrs.  Crane. 
"You  are  so.     But  look  at  me  —  what  am  I?" 

"Oh,  a  very  fine  woman,  my  dear  Crane  —  always 
were.  But  you  neglect  yourself;  you  should  not  do 
that ;  keep  it  up  to  the  last.  Well,  but  to  return  to  the 
child.  You  have  disposed  of  her  without  my  consent, 
without  letting  me  know." 

"  Letting  you  know  I  How  many  years  is  it  since  you 
even  gave  me  your  address  ?  Never  fear,  she  is  in  good 
hands." 

"Whose?     At  all  events  I  must  see  her." 

"  See  her  !     What  for  ?  " 

"  What  for  !  Hang  it,  it  is  natural  that,  now  I  am  in 
England,  I  should  at  least  wish  to  know  what  she  is  like. 
And  I  think  it  very  strange  that  you  should  send  her 
av^ay,  and  then  make  all  these  difficulties.  What's  your 
object?     I  don't  understand  it." 

"  My  object  I  What  could  be  my  object  but  to  serve 
you  ?  At  your  request  I  took,  fed,  reared  a  child,  whom 
you  could  not  expect  me  to  love,  at  my  own  cost.     Did 


316  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

I  ever  ask  you  for  a  shilling  ?  Did  I  ever  suffer  you  to 
give  me  one  ?  Never  I  At  last,  hearing  no  more /rom 
you,  and  what  little  I  heard  of  you,  making  me  think  that 
if  any  thing  happened  to  me  (and  I  was  very  ill  at  the 
time),  you  could  only  find  her  a  burden  ;  at  last,  I  say, 
the  old  man  came  to  me  —  you  had  given  him  my  address 
—  and  he  offered  to  take  her,  and  I  consented.  She  is 
with  him." 

''  The  old  man  !   She  is  with  him  I  And  where  is  he  ?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

"Humph  I  How  does  he  live  ?  Can  he  have  got  any 
money  ?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

"Did  any  old  friends  take  him  up?" 

"  Would  he  go  to  old  friends  ?  " 

Mr.  Losely  tossed  off  two  fresh  glasses  of  brandy,  one 
after  the  other,  and,  rising,  walked  to  and  fro  the  room, 
his  hands  buried  in  his  pockets,  and  in  no  comfortable 
vein  of  reflection.  At  length  he  paused,  and  said,  "  Well, 
upon  the  whole,  I  don't  see  what  I  could  do  with  the  girl 
just  at  present ;  though,  of  course,  I  ought  to  know  where 
she  is,  and  with  whom.  Tell  me,  Mrs.  Crane,  what  is  she 
like  —  pretty  or  plain  ?  " 

"I  suppose  the  chit  would  be  called  pretty  —  by  some 
persons  at  least." 

"  Vejy  pretty  ?  handsome  ?  "  asked  Losely,  abruptly. 

"  Handsome  or  not,  what  does  it  signify  ?  what  good 
comes  of  beauty  ?  You  had  beauty  enough ;  what  have 
you  done  with  it  ?  " 


wuaT  will  he  do  with  it?  317 

At  that  question  Losely  drew  himself  up  with  a  sudden 
loftiness  of  look  and  gesture,  which,  though  prompted 
but  by  offended  vanity,  improved  the  expression  of  the 
countenance,  and  restored  to  it  much  of  its  earlier  cha- 
racter. Mrs.  Crane  gazed  on  him,  startled  into  admira- 
tion, and  it  was  in  an  altered  voice,  half  reproachful,  half 
bitter,  that  she  continued  — 

"And  now  that  you  are  satisfied  about  her,  have  you 
no  questions  to  ask  about  me — what  I  do — how  I  live  ?" 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Crane,  I  know  that  you  are  comfort- 
ably off,  and  were  never  of  a  mercenary  temper.  I  trust 
you  are  happy,  and  so  forth — I  wish  I  were  ;  things  don't 
prosper  with  me.  If  you  could  conveniently  lend  me  a 
five-pound  note  — " 

"  You  would  borrow  of  me,  Jasper  ?  Ah  1  you  come 
to  me  in  your  troubles.  You  shall  have  the  money — five 
pounds — ten  pounds — what  you  please,  but  you  will  call 
again  for  it  ?  you  need  me  now — you  will  not  utterly  de- 
sert me  now  ?" 

"  Best  of  creatures  !  never  I  "  He  seized  her  hand,  and 
kissed  it.  She  withdrew  it  quickly  from  his  clasp,  and, 
glancing  over  him  from  head  to  foot,  said,  "  But  are  you 
really  in  need  ?  you  are  well-dressed,  Jasper ;  that  you 
always  were." 

"  Not  always  ;  three  days  ago  very  much  the  reverse  ; 
but  I  have  had  a  trifling  aid,  and  — " 

•'Aid  in  England  ?  from  whom  ?  where  ?  Not  from  him 
whom,  you  say,  you  had  the  courage  to  seek  ? " 

"From  whom  else?  Have  I  no  claim?  A  miserable 
27* 


318  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

alms  flung  to  me.  Curse  him  !  I  tell  you  that  man's  look 
and  language  so  galled  me  —  so  galled,"  echoed  Losely, 
sliifling  his  hold  from  the  top  of  his  switch  to  the  centre, 
and  bringing  the  murderous  weight  of  the  lead  down  on 
the  palm  of  his  other  hand,  "that,  if  his  eye  had  quitted 
me  for  a  moment,  I  think  I  must  have  brained  him,  and 
been  — " 

"  Hanged  !  "  said  Mrs.  Crane. 

"  Of  course,  hanged,"  returned  Losely,  resuming  the 
reckless  voice  and  manner  in  which  there  was  that  peculiar 
levity  which  comes  from  hardness  of  heart,  as  from  the 
steel's  hardness  comes  the  blade's  play.  "  But  if  a  man 
did  not  sometimes  forget  consequences,  there  would  be 
an  end  of  the  gallows.  I  am  glad  that  his  eye  never  left 
mine."  And  the  leaden  head  of  the  switch  fell  with  a 
dull,  dumb  sound  on  the  floor. 

Mrs.  Crane  made  no  immediate  rejoinder,  but  fixed  on 
her  lawless  visitor  a  gaze  in  which  there  was  no  womanly 
fear  (though  Losely's  aspect  and  gesture  might  have  sent 
a  thrill  through  the  nerves  of  many  a  hardy  man),  but 
which  was  not  without  womanly  compassion,  her  counte- 
nance gradually  softening  more  and  more,  as  if  under  the 
influence  of  recollections  m^  uruful  but  not  hostile.  At 
length  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Poor  Jasper  !  Is  all  the 
vain  ambition  that  made  you  so  false  shrunk  into  a  ferocity 
that  finds  you  so  powerless  ?  Would  your  existence,  after 
all,  have  been  harder,  poorer,  meaner,  if  your  faith  had 
been  kept  to  me  1 " 

Evidently  disliking  that  turn  in  the  conversation,  but 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  319 

checking  a  reply  that  might  have  been  rude  had  no  visions 
of  live  pounds — ten  pounds — loomed  in  the  distance,  Mr 
Loselj  said, 

"  Pshaw  I  Bella,  pshaw  I  I  was  a  fool,  I  dare  say,  and 
a  sad  dog — a  very  sad  dog ;  but  I  had  always  the  great- 
est regard  for  you,  and  always  shall  I  Ilillo,  what's  that  ? 
A  knock  at  the  door !  Oh,  by-the-by,  a  queer-looking 
man,  in  a  white  hat,  called  at  the  same  time  I  did,  to  see 
you  on  private  business — gave  way  to  me — said  he  should 
come  again ;  may  I  ask  who  he  is  ? " 

"  I  can  not  guess  ;  no  one  ever  calls  here  on  business, 
except  the  tax-gatherer." 

The  old  woman-servant  now  entered.  "A  gentleman, 
ma'am  —  says  his  name  is  Rugge." 

"Rugge  —  Rugge— *  let  me  think." 

"I  am  here,  Mrs.  Crane,"  said  the  manager,  striding 
in.  "  You  don't  perhaps  call  me  to  mind  by  name  ;  but 
—  oho  —  not  gone.  Sir  !  Do  I  intrude  prematurely  ?" 

"  No,  I  have  done  ;  good-day,  my  dear  Mrs.  Crane" 

"  Stay,  Jasper.  I  remember  you  now,  Mr.  Rugge  , 
take  a  cha"r." 

She  whispered  a  few  words  into  Losely's  ear,  then 
turned  to  the  manager,  and  said  aloud,  "  I  saw  you  at 
Mr.  Waife's  lodging,  at  the  time  he  had  that  bad  acci- 
dent." 

"And  I  had  the  honor  to  accompany  you  home,  ma'am, 
and  —  but  shall  I  speak  out  before  this  gentleman  ?" 

"  Certainly ;  you  see  he  is  listening  to  you  with  atten- 
tion.    This  gentleman  and  I  have  no  secrets  from  eacD 


320  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

other.     What  has  become  of  that  person  ?  This  gentle- 
man wishes  to  know." 

LosELY.  "Yes,  Sir,  I  wish  to  know  —  particularly." 
KuGGE.   "  So  do  I ;  that  is  partly  what  I  came  about. 
You  are  aware,  I  think,  ma'am,  that  I  engaged  him  and 
Juliet  Araminta  —  that  is,  Sophy." 

LosELY.  "  Sophy  —  engaged  them,  Sir  —  how  ?  " 
RuGGE.  "Theatrical  line,  Sir  —  Kugge's  Exhibition; 
he  was  a  great  actor  once,  that  fellow  Waife." 
LosELY.  "Oh,  actor  I  —  well.  Sir,  go  on." 
RuGGE  (who  in  the  course  of  lils  address  turns  from 
the  lady  to  the  gentleman,  from  the  gentleman  to  the 
lady,  with  appropriate  gesture  and  appealing  look). 
"  But  he  became  a  wreck,  a  block  of  a  man  ;  lost  an  eye 
and  his  voice  too.  However,  te  serve  him,  T  took  his 
grandchild  and  him  too.  He  left  me  —  shamefully,  and 
ran  off  with  his  grandchild,  Sir.  Now,  ma'am,  to  be 
plain  with  you,  that  little  girl  I  looked  upon  as  my  pro- 
perty —  a  very  valuable  property.  She  is  worth  a  great 
deal  to  me,  and  I  have  been  done  out  of  her.  If  you  can 
help  me  to  get  her  back,  articled  and  engaged  say  for 
three  years,  I  am  willing  and  happy,  ma'am,  to  pay  some- 
thing handsome  —  uncommon  handsome." 

Mrs,  Crane  (loftily).  "  Speak  to  that  gentleman  —  he 
may  treat  with  you." 

LosELY.  "What  do  you  call  uncommon  handsome, 
Mr.  —  Mr.  Tugge  ?  " 

RuGGE.  "  Rugge  !  Sir  ;  we  shan't  disagree,  I  hope, 
provided  you  have  the  power  to  get  Waife  to  bind  the 
girl  to  me  " 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  321 

LosELY.  "  I  may  have  the  power  to  transfer  the  young 
lady  to  your  care  ;  young  lady  is  a  more  respectful  phrase 
than  girl ;  and  possibly  to  dispense  with  Mr.  Waife's  con- 
sent to  such  arrangement.  But  excuse  me  if  I  say  that  I 
must  know  a  little  more  of  yourself  before  I  could  promise 
to  exert  such  a  power  on  your  behalf." 

RuGGE.  "  Sir,  I  shall  be  proud  to  improve  our  acquaint- 
ance. As  to  Waife,  the  old  vagabond,  he  has  injured  and 
affronted  me,  Sir.  I  don't  bear  malice,  but  I  have  a  spirit 
—  Britons  have  a  spirit,  Sir.  And  you  will  remember, 
ma'am,  that  when  I  accompanied  you  home,  I  observed 
that  Mr.  Waife  was  a  mysterious  man,  and  had  apparently 
known  better  days,  and  that  when  a  man  is  mysterious, 
and  falls  into  the  sear  and  yellow  leaf,  ma'am,  without 
that  which  should  accompany  old  age,  Sir,  one  has  a 
right  to  suspect  that  some  time  or  other  he  has  done 
something  or  other,  ma'am,  which  makes  him  fear  lest 
the  very  stones  prate  of  his  whereabouts.  Sir.  And  you 
did  not  deny,  ma'am,  that  the  mystery  was  suspicious; 
but  you  said,  with  uncommon  good  sense,  that  it  was  no- 
thing to  me  what  Mr.  Waife  had  once  been,  so  long  as  he 
was  of  use  to  me  at  that  particular  season.  Since  then, 
Sir,  he  has  ceased  to  be  of  use  —  ceased,  too,  in  the  un- 
handsomest  manner.  And  if  you  would,  ma'am,  from  a 
sense  of  justice,  just  unravel  the  mystery,  put  me  in  pos- 
session of  the  secret,  it  might  make  that  base  man  of  use 
to  me  again  —  give  me  a  handle  over  him.  Sir,  so  that  I 
might  awe  him  .into  restoring  my  property,  as,  morally 
speaking,  Juliet  Araminta  most  undoubtedly  is.     That's 

V 


323  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

why  I  call — leaving  my  company,  to  which  I  am  a  father, 
orphans  for  the  present.  But  I  have  missed  that  little 
girl  —  that  young  lady,  Sir.  I  called  her  a  phenomenon, 
ma'am  —  missed  her  much  —  it  is  natural,  Sir  ;  I  appeal 
to  you  No  man  can  be  done  out  of  a  valuable  property 
and  not  feel  it,  if  he  has  a  heart  in  his  bosom.  And  if  I 
had  her  back  safe,  I  should  indulge  ambition.  I  have 
always  had  ambition.  The  theater  at  York,  Sir  —  that 
is  my  ambition  ;  I  had  it  from  a  child,  Sir  ;  dreamed  of  it 
three  times,  ma'am.  If  I  had  back  my  property  in  that 
phenomenon,  I  would  go  at  the  thing,  slap  bang,  take  the 
York,  and  bring  out  the  phenomenon,  with  a  clawP^ 

LosELY  (musingly).  "You  say  the  young  lady  is  a 
phenomenon,  and  for  this  phenomenon  you  are  willing  to 
pay  somethin"g  handsome  —  a  vague  expression.  Put  it 
into  £  s.   (?." 

RuGGE.  "  Sir,  if  she  can  be  bound  to  me  legally  for 
three  years,  I  would  give  £100.  I  did  offer  to  Waife  £50 
—  to  you.   Sir,  £100." 

Losely's  eyes  flashed  and  his  hands  opened  restlessly 
"But,  confound  it,  where  is  she  ?  have  you  no  clew  ?  " 

RuGGE.  "  No,  but  we  can  easily  find  one  ;  it  was  not 
worth  my  while  to  hunt  them  up  before  I  was  quite  sure 
that,  if  I  regained  my  property  in  that  phenomenon,  the 
law  would  protect  it." 

Mrs.  Crane  (moving  to  the  door).  "  Well,  Jasper 
Losely,  you  will  sell  the  young  lady,  I  doubt  not ;  and 
when  you  have  sold  her,  let  me  know."  She  came  back 
and  whispered,  "  You  will  not  perhaps  now  want  money 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  323 

from  rao,  but  I  shall  see  you  again  ;  for,  if  you  would  find 
the  child,  you  will  need  my  aid." 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  friend,  I  will  call  again  ;  honor 
bright." 

Mrs.  Crane  here  bowed  to  the  gentlemen,  and  swept 
out  of  the  room. 

Thus  left  alone,  Losely  and  Rugge  looked  at  each  other 
with  a  shy  and  yet  cunning  gaze  —  Rugge's  hands  in  his 
trowsers  pockets,  his  head  thrown  back  —  Losely 's  hands 
involuntarily  expanded,  his  head  bewitchiugly  bent  for- 
ward, and  a  little  on  one  side. 

"  Sir,"  said  Rugge  at  length,  "  what  do  you  say  to  a 
chop  and  a  pint  of  wine  ?  Perhaps  we  could  talk  more 
at  our  ease  elsewhere.  I  am  only  in  town  for  a  day  —  left 
my  company  thirty  miles  off — orphans,  as  I  said  before." 

"Mr.  Rugge,"  said  Losely,  "I  have  no  desire  to  stay 
in  London,  or  indeed  in  England  ;  and  the  sooner  we  can 
settle  this  matter  the  better.  Grant  that  we  find  the  young 
lady,  you  provide  for  her  board  and  lodging  —  teach  her 
your  honorable  profession  —  behave,  of  course,  kindly  to 
her  —  " 

"Like  a  father." 

"And  give  to  me  the  sum  of  £100?" 

"  That  is,  if  you  can  legally  make  her  over  to  me.  But, 
Sir,  may  I  inquire  by  w^hat  authority  you  would  act  in 
this  matter  ?" 

"On  that  head  it  will  be  easy  to  satisfy  you  ;  mean- 
while I  accept  your  proposal  of  an  early  dinner.     Let  us 
adjourn  —  is  it  to  your  house?" 
20* 


324  WHAT     WILL    HE     DO     WITH    IT? 

"  I  have  no  exact  private  house  hi  London  ;  but  I  know 
a  pubhc  one  —  commodious." 

"Be  it  so.     After  you,  Sir." 

As  they  descended  the  stairs,  the  old  woman-servant 
stood  at  the  street  door.  Rugge  went  out  first  —  the 
woman  detained  Losely. 

"  Do  you  find  her  altered  ?  " 

"Whom?  Mrs.  Crane  ?  —  why,  years  will  tell.  But 
you  seem  to  have  known  me — I  don't  remember  you." 

"Not  Bridgett  Greggs?" 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  I  left  you  a  middle-aged,  rosy-faced 
woman.  True,  I  recognize  you  now.  There's  a  crown 
for  you.     I  wish  I  had  more  to  spare  I " 

Bridgett  pushed  back  the  silver. 

"No  —  I  dare  not!  Take  money  from  you,  Jasper 
Losely  I     Mistress  would  not  forgive  me  ! " 

Losely,  not  unreluctantly,  restored  the  crown  to  his 
pocket ;  and,  with  a  snort,  rather  than  sigh,  of  relief, 
stepped  into  open  daylight.  As  he  crossed  the  street  to 
join  Rugge,  who  was  waiting  for  him  on  the  shady  side, 
he  mechanically  turned  to  look  back  at  the  house,  and, 
at  the  open  window  of  an  upper  story,  he  beheld  again 
those  shining  eyes  which  had  glared  down  on  him  from 
the  stairs.  He  tried  to  smile,  and  waved  his  hand  feebly. 
The  eyes  seemed  to  return  the  smile ;  and  as  he  walked 
down  the  street,  arm  in  arm  with  the  ruffian  manager, 
slowly  recovering  his  springy  step,  and  in  ihe  gloss  of  the 
new  garmets  that  set  forth  his  still  symmetrical  propor- 
tions, the  eyes  followed  him  watchfully — steadfastly — till 


WHAT     WILL     HE    DO     WITH    IT?  325 

nis  form  bud  vanished,  and  the  dull  street  was  or.ce  more 
a  solitude 

Then  Arabella  Crane  turned  from  the  window.  Putting 
her  hand  to  her  heart,  "  How  it  beats  !  "  she  muttered  ; 
"if  in  love  or  in  hate,  in  scorn  or  in  pity,  beats  once 
more  with  a  human  emotion.  He  will  come  again  — 
whether  for  money  or  for  woman's  wit,  what  care  I  —  he 
will  come.  — I  will  hold,  I  will  cling  to  him,  no  more  to 
part  —  for  better,  for  worse,  as  it  should  have  been  once 
at  the  altar.  And  the  child?"  she  paused;  was  it  in 
compunction  ?  "  The  child  ! "  she  continued,  fiercely,  and 
as  if  lashing  herself  into  rage,  "  The  child  of  that  treacher- 
ous, hateful  mother — yes  I  I  will  help  him  to  sell  her  back 
as  a  stage-show  —  help  him  in  all  that  does  not  lift  her 
to  a  state  from  which  she  may  look  down  with  disdain  on 
me.  Revenge  on  her,  on  that  cruel  house  —  revenge  is 
sweet.  Oh  !  that  it  were  revenge  alone  that  bids  me 
cling  to  him  who  deserves  revenge  the  most."  She  closed 
her  burning  eyes,  and  sate  down  droopingly,  rocking  her- 
self to  and  fro  like  one  in  pain. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

In  life  it  is  difficult  to  say  who  do  you  the  most  mischief,  eu'.miea 
with  the  worst  intentions,  or  friends  with  the  best. 

The  conference  between  Mr.  Rugge  and  Mr.  Losely 
germinated  in  an  appointment  to  meet,  the  next  day,  at 
the  village  in  which  this  story  opened.     Meanwhile,  Mr. 

I.  — 28 


526  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

Rugge  would  return  to  bis  "  orphans,"  and  arrange  per- 
formances in  which,  for  some  days,  they  might  dispense 
with  a  Father's  part.  Losely,  on  his  side,  undertook  to 
devote  the  intervening  hours  to  consultation  with  a 
solicitor,  to  whom  Mr.  Rugge  recommended  him,  as  to 
the  prompt  obtaining  of  legal  powers  to  enforce  the 
authority  he  asserted  himself  to  possess.  He  would  also 
persuade  Mrs.  Crane  to  accompany  him  to  the  village, 
and  aid  in  the  requisite  investigations  —  entertaining  a 
tacit  but  instinctive  belief  in  the  superiority  of  her  acute- 
uess.  "  Set  a  female  to  catch  a  female,"  quoth  Mr.  Rugge. 
On  the  day  and  in  the  place  thus  fixed,  the  three  hunters 
opened  their  chase.  They  threw  off  at  the  cobbler's  stall. 
They  soon  caught  the  same  scent  which  had  been  followed 
by  the  lawyer's  clerk.  They  arrived  at  Mrs.  Saunders's  — ■ 
there  the  two  men  would  have  been  at  fault  like  their 
predecessor.  But  the  female  was  more  astute.  To  drop 
the  metaphor,  Mrs.  Saunders  could  not  stand  the  sharp 
cross-examination  of  one  of  her  own  sex.  "  That  woman 
deceives  us,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  on  leaving  the  house. 
"  They  have  not  gone  to  London.  What  could  they  do 
there  ?  Any  man  with  a  few  stage,  juggling  tricks,  can 
get  on  in  country  villages,  but  would  be  lost  in  cities. 
Perhaps,  as  it  seems  he  has  got  a  dog  —  we  have  found 
out  that  from  Mrs.  Saunders  —  he  will  make  use  of  it  for 
an  itinerant  puppet-show." 

"  Punch  1 "  said  Mr.  Rugge — "  not  a  doubt  of  it." 
"In  that  case,"  observed  Mrs.  Crane,  "they  are  pro- 
bably not  far  off.    Let  us  print  handbills,  offering  a  reward 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  327 

for  their  clew,  and  luring  the  old  man  himself  by  an 
assurance  that  the  inquiry  is  made  in  order  that  he  may 
learn  of  something  to  his  advantage." 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  the  handbills  were  printed. 
The  next  day  they  were  posted  up  on  the  walls,  not  only 
of  that  village,  but  on  those  of  the  small  towns  and 
hamlets  for  some  miles  round.  The  handbills  ran  in- 
vitingly thus  :  "  If  William  Waife,  who  left on  the 

20th  ult,  will  apply  at  the  Red  Lion  Inn  at ,  for 

X.  X.,  he  will  learn  of  something  greatly  to  his  advantage. 
A  reward  of  £5  will  be  given  to  any  one  who  will  furnish 
information  where  the  said  William  Waife,  and  the  little 
girl  who  accompanies  him,  may  be  found.  The  said 
William  Waife  is  about  sixty  years  of  age,  of  middle 
stature,  strongly  built,  has  lost  one  eye,  and  is  lame  of 
one  leg.  The  little  girl,  called  Sophy,  is  twelve  years 
old,  but  looks  younger ;  has  blue  eyes  and  light  brown 
hair.  They  had  with  them  a  white  French  poodle  dog. 
This  bill  is  printed  by  the  friends  of  the  missing  party." 
The  next  day  passed  —  no  information;  but  on  the  day 
l)llowing,  a  young  gentleman  of  good  mien,  dressed  in 
l^Iack,  rode  into  the  town,  stopped  at  the  Red  Lion  Inn, 
and  asked  to  see  X.  X.  The  two  men  were  out  on  their 
researches  —  Mrs.  Crane  stayed  at  home  to  answer  in- 
quiries. 

The  gentleman  was  requested  to  dismount,  and  walk  in. 
Mrs.  Crane  received  him  in  the  inn  parlor,  which  swarmed 
with  flies.  She  stood  in  the  center — vigilant,  grim  spider 
of  the  place. 


328  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"I  ca-ca-call,"  said  the  gentleman,  stammering  fear- 
fully, "  in  con-con-sequence  ofab-b-bill  —  I  —  cb-chanced 
to  see  in  my  ri-ri-ri-ride  yesterday  —  on  a  wa-wa-wail :  — 
You  —  you,  I  —  sup-sup — " 

"Am  X.  X.,"  put  in  Mrs.  Crane,  growing  impatient; 
"  one  of  the  friends  of  Mr.  Waife,  by  whom  the  handbill 
has  been  circulated  ;  it  will  indeed  be  a  great  relief  to  us 
to  know  where  they  are  —  the  little  girl  more  especially," 
Mrs.  Crane  was  respectably  dressed — in  silk,  iron-gray  ; 
she  had  crisped  her  flaky  tresses  into  stiff,  hard  ringlets, 
that  fell  like  long  screws  from  under  a  black  velvet  band. 
Mrs.  Crane  never  wore  a  cap  —  nor  could  you  fancy  her 
in  a  cap  ;  but  the  velvet  band  looked  as  rigid  as  if 
gummed  to  a  hoop  of  steel.  Her  manner  and  tone  of 
voice  were  those  of  an  educated  person,  not  unused  to 
some  society  above  the  vulgar ;  and  yet  the  visitor,  in 
whom  the  reader  recognizes  the  j^iscatorial  Oxonian,  with 
whom  Waife  had  interchanged  philosophy  on  the  marge 
of  the  running  brooklet,  drew  back  as  she  advanced  and 
spoke  ;  and,  bent  on  an  errand  of  kindness,  he  was  seized 
with  a  vague  misgiving. 

"Mrs.  Crane  (blandly).  "I  fear  they  must  be  badly 
off.  I  hope  they  are  not  wanting  the  necessaries  of  life. 
But  pray  be  seated.  Sir."  She  looked  at  him  again,  and 
with  more  respect  in  her  address  than  she  had  before 
thrown  into  it,  added,  with  a  half  courtesy,  as  she  seated 
herself  by  his  side,  "A  clergyman  of  the  Established 
Church,  I  presume.  Sir  ?  " 

Oxonian  (stammer,  as  on  a  former  occasion,  respect- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  329 

fully  omitted).  "With  this  defect,  ma'am  I  But  to  the 
point.  Some  days  ago  I  happened  to  fall  in  with  an 
elderly  person,  such  as  is  described,  with  a  very  pretty 
female  child,  and  a  French  dog.  The  man  —  gentleman, 
perhaps,  I  may  call  him,  judging  from  his  conversation  — 
interested  me  much  ;  so  did  the  little  girl.  And  if  I  could 
be  the  means  of  directing  real  friends  anxious  to  serve 
them  —  " 

Mrs.  Crane.     "You  would  indeed  be  a  benefactor 
And  where  are  they  now,  Sir?" 

Oxonian.  "  That  I  cannot  positively  tell  you.  But 
before  I  say  more,  will  you  kindly  satisfy  my  curiosity  ? 
He  is  perhaps  an  eccentric  person  —  this  Mr.  Waife  ?  —  a 
little  —  "  The  Oxonian  stopped,  and  touched  his  fore- 
head. Mrs.  Crane  made  no  prompt  reply  —  she  was  mu- 
sing. Unwarily  the  scholar  continued  ;  "  Because,  in  that 
case,  I  should  not  like  to  interfere.  So  many  persons  are 
shut  up,  where  there  is  no  insanity ;  but  where  there  is 
property  —  " 

"  Mrs.  Crane.  "  Quite  right,  Sir.  His  friends  would 
not  interfere  with  his  roving  ways,  his  little  whims,  on  any 
account.  Poor  man,  why  should  they  ?  No  property  at 
all  for  them  to  covet,  I  assure  you.  But  it  is  a  long  story. 
I  had  the  care  of  that  dear  little  girl  from  her  infancy  ; 
Bweet  child!" 

Oxonian.     "So  she  seems." 

Mrs.  Crane.     "And  now  she  has  a  most  comfortable 
home  provided  for  her  j    and   a  young  girl,  with  good 
28* 


B'SO  WHAT     WILL     HE     DO     WITH    IT? 

friends,  ought  not  to  be  tramping  about  the  country,  what- 
ever an  old  man  may  do.     You  must  allow  that,  Sir?" 

Oxonian,  "Well  —  yes,  I  allow  that  j  it  occurred  to 
mc.     But  what  is  the  man?  —  the  gentleman?" 

Mrs  Crane.  "  Yery  'eccentric,'  as  you  say,  and  in- 
considerate, perhaps,  as  to  the  little  girl.  We  will  not 
call  it  insane,  Sir  ;  we  can't  bear  to  look  at  it  in  that  light. 
But  "-are  you  married?" 

Oxonian  (blushing).     "No,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Crane.     "  But  you  haye  a  sister,  perhaps  ?  " 

OxoMAN.     "Yes;  I  have  one  sister." 

Mrs.  Crane.  "  Would  you  like  your  sister  to  be  run- 
ning about  the  country  in  that  way  —  carried  off  from  her 
home,  kindred,  and  friends  ?  " 

Oxonian.  "Ah!  I  understand.  The  poor  little  girl 
is  fond  of  the  old  man  —  a  relation,  grandfather  perhaps  ? 
and  he  has  taken  her  from  her  home  ;  and  though  not 
actually  insane,  he  is  still  —  " 

Mrs.  Crane.  "An  unsafe  guide  for  a  female  child, 
delicately  reared.  I  reared  her  ;  of  good  prospects  too. 
Oh,  Sir,  let  us  save  the  child  !  Look  —  "  She  drew  from 
a  side-pocket  in  her  stiff  iron-gray  apron  a  folded  paper ; 
she  placed  it  in  the  Oxonian's  hand  ;'he  glanced  over  and 
returned  it. 

"  I  see,  ma'am.  I  cannot  hesitate  after  this.  It  is  a 
good  many  miles  off  where  I  met  the  persons  whom  I 
have  no  doubt  that  you  seek  ;  and  two  or  three  days  ago 
my  father  received  a  letter  from  a  very  worthy,  excellent 
man,  with  whom  he  is  often  brought  into  communicatioo 


"WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     A^ITH    IT?  331 

npou  benevolent  objects  —  a  Mr.  Ilartopp,  the  Mayor  of 
Gatesboro',  in  which,  among  other  matters,  the  mayor 
mentioned  briefly  that  the  Literary  Institute  of  that  town 
had  been  much  delighted  by  the  performance  of  a  very 
remarkable  man  with  one  eye,  about  whom  there  seemed 
some  mystery,  with  a  little  girl  and  a  learned  dog  ;  and  I 
can't  help  thinking  that  the  man,  the  girl,  and  the  dog 
must  be  those  whom  I  saw  and  you  seek." 

Mrs.  Crane.   "At  Gatesboro' ?  — is  that  far?" 

"  Some  way  ;  "but  you  can  get  a  cross  train  from  this 
village.  I  hope  that  the  old  man  will  not  be  separated 
from  the  little  girl ;  they  seemed  very  fond  of  each  other." 

"  No  doubt  of  it — very  fond  ;  it  would  be  cruel  to  sepa- 
rate them.  A  comfortable  home  for  both.  I  don't  know. 
Sir,  if  I  dare  offer  to  a  gentleman  of  your  evident  rank 
the  reward  —  but  for  the  poor  of  your  parish." 

"  Oh,  ma'am,  our  poor  want  for  nothing.  My  father 
is  rich.  But  if  you  would  oblige  me  by  a  line  after  you 
have  found  these  interesting  persons  —  I  am  going  to  a 
distant  part  of  the  country  to-morrow  —  to  Montfort 
Court,  in  shire." 

Mrs.  Crane.  "  To  Lord  Montfort,  the  head  of  the  noble 
family  of  Yipont  ? " 

Oxonian.  "  Yes.  You  know  any  of  the  family,  ma'am  ? 
If  you  could  refer  me  to  one  of  them,  I  should  feel  more 
satisfied  as  to  —  " 

Mrs.  Crane  (hastily).  "  Indeed,  Sir,  every  one  must 
know  that  great  family  by  name  and  repute.  I  know  no 
more.  So  you  are  going  to  Lord  Montfort'sl  The 
Marchioness,  they  say,  is  very  beautiful  1 " 


332  "WWAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Oxonian.  "  And  good  as  beautiful.  I  have  the  honor 
to  be  connected  both  with  her  and  Lord  Montfort ;  they 
are  cousins,  and  my  grandfather  was  a  Yipont.  I  should 
have  told  you  my  name—  Morley ;  George  Yipont  Mor- 
ley." 

Mrs.  Crane  made  a  profound  courtesy,  and,  with  an 
anmistakable  smile  of  satisfaction,  said,  as  if  half  in  solilo- 
quy, "  So  it  is  to  one  of  that  noble  family  —  to  a  Yipont 
—  that  the  dear  child  will  owe  her  restoration  to  my  em- 
brace !     Bless  you,  Sir  I " 

"  I  hope  I  have  done  right,"  said  George  Yipont  Mor- 
ley, as  he  mounted  his  horse.  "  I  must  have  done  right, 
surely ! "  he  said,  again,  when  he  was  on  the  high-road. 
"  I  fear  that  I  have  not  done  right,"  he  said,  a  third  time, 
as  the  face  of  Mrs.  Crane  began  to  haunt  him  ;  and  when, 
at  sunset,  he  reached  his  home,  tired  out,  horse  and  man, 
with  an  unusually  long  ride,  and  the  green  water-bank  on 
which  he  had  overheard  poor  Waife's  simple  grace  and 
joyous  babble  came  in  sight,  "After  all,"  he  said,  dole- 
fully, "it  was  no  business  of  mine.  I  meant  well,  but  — " 
His  little  sister  ran  to  the  gate  to  greet  him.  "  Yes,  I 
did  quite  right.  How  should  I  like  my  sister  to  be  roving 
the  country,  and  acting  at  Literary  Institutes  with  a  poo- 
dle dog  ?     Quite  right.     Kiss  me,  Jane  1 " 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  333 


CHAPTER   XYIII. 

Let  a  king  and  a  beggar  converse  freely  together,  and  it  is  the  beg- 
gar's fault  if  he  does  not  say  something  which  makes  the  king 
lift  his  hat  to  him. 

The  scene  sliifts  back  to  Gatesboro',  the  forenoon  of 
the  day  succeedinj^  the  memorable  Exhibition  at  the  In- 
stitute of  that  learned  town.  Mr.  Hartopp  was  in  the 
little  parlor  behind  his  country-house,  his  hours  of  busi- 
ness much  broken  into  by  those  intruders  who  deem  no 
time  unseasonable  for  the  indulgence  of  curiosity,  the  in- 
terchange of  thought,  or  the  interests  of  general  humanity 
and  of  national  enlightenment.  The  excitement  produced 
on  the  previous  evening  by  Mr.  Chapman,  Sophy,  and  Sir 
Isaac,  was  greatly  on  the  increase.  Persons  who  had  seen 
them  naturally  called  on  the  Mayor  to  talk  over  the  Ex- 
hibition. Persons  who  had  not  seen  them  still  more  natu- 
rally dropped  in  just  to  learn  what  was  really  Mr.  Mayor's 
private  opinion.  The  little  parlor  was  thronged  by  a 
regular  levee.  There  was  the  proprietor  of  a  dismal 
building,  still  called  "  The  Theater,"  which  was  seldom 
let  except  at  election-time,  when  it  was  hired  by  the  popu- 
lar candidate  for  the  delivery  of  those  harangues  upon 
liberty  and  conscience,  tyranny  and  oppression,  which  fur- 
nish the  staple  of  declamation  equally  to  the  dramatist 
and  the  orator.   There  was  also  the  landlord  of  the  Royal 


534  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Hotel,  who  had  lately  built  to  his  house  "  The  City  Con- 
cert room"  —  a  superb  apartment,  but  a  losing  specula- 
tion. There,  too,  were  three  highly  respectable  persons, 
of  a  serious  turn  of  mind,  who  came  to  suggest  doubts 
whether  an  entertainment  of  so  frivolous  a  nature  was  not 
injurious  to  the  morality  of  Gatesboro',  Besides  these 
notables,  there  were  loungers  and  gossips,  with  no  par- 
ticular object  except  that  of  ascertaining  who  Mr.  Chap- 
man was  by  birth  and  parentage,  and  suggesting  the 
expediency  of  a  deputation  ostensibly  for  the  purpose  of 
asking  him  to  repeat  his  performance,  but  charged  with 
private  instructions  to  cross-examine  him  as  to  his  pedi- 
gree. The  gentle  Mayor  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  mighty 
ledger-book,  pen  in  hand.  The  attitude  was  a  rebuke  on 
intruders,  and  in  ordinary  times  would  have  been  so  con- 
sidered. But  mildness,  however  majestic,  is  not  always 
effective  in  periods  of  civic  commotion.  The  room  was 
animated  by  hubbub.  You  caught  broken  sentences  here 
and  there  crossing  each  other,  like  the  sounds  that  had 
been  frozen  in  the  air,  and  set  free  by  a  thaw,  according 
to  the  veracious  narrative  of  Baron  Munchausen. 

Play  house  Proprietor.     "  The  theatre  is  the  — " 

Seriovs  Gi  ntleman.  "  Plausible  snare  by  which  a 
population,  at  present  grave  and  well-disposed,  is  decoyed 
into  becoming — " 

Excited  Admirer.  "A  French  poodle,  Sir,  that  plays 
dominoes  like  a  —  " 

Credulous  Conjecturer.  "  Benevolent  philanthro- 
pist, condescending  to  act  for  the  benefit  of  some  dL<^- 
tressed  brother  who  is — " 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  335 

Proprietor  of  City  Concert  Room.  ''  One  hundred 
and  twenty  feet  long  by  forty,  Mr.  Mayor  I  Talk  of 
that  damp  theater,  Sir  I — you  might  as  well  talk  of 
.he  —  " 

Suddenly  the  door  flew  open,  and,  pushing  aside  a  clerk 
who  designed  to  a,nnounce  him,  in  burst  Mr.  Chapman 
himself. 

He  had  evidently  expected  to  find  the  Mayor  alone, 
for  at  the  sight  of  that  throng  he  checked  himself,  and 
stood  mute  at  the  threshold.     The  levee  for  a  moment 
was  no  less  surprised,  and  no  less  mute.     But  the  good 
folks   soon   recovered   themselves.     To   many   it  was  a 
pleasure  to    accost  and  congratulate  the  man  who,  the 
night  before,  had  occasioned  to  them  emotions  so  agree- 
able.    Cordial   smiles   broke  out  —  friendly  hands  were 
thrust  forth.     Brief  but  hearty  compliments,  mingled  with 
entreaties  to  renew  the  performance  to  a  larger  audience, 
were    showered    round.     The    Comedian   stood,  hat   in 
hand,  mechanically  passing  his  sleeve  over  its  nap,  mut- 
tering, half  inaudibly,   "You  see  before  you  a  man"  — 
and  turning  his  single  eye  from  one  face  to  the  other,  as 
if  struggling  to  guess  what  was  meant,  or  where  he  was. 
The  Mayor  rose  and  came  forward.     "  My  dear  friends." 
said   he,  mildly,   "Mr.  Chapman    calls  by  appointment. 
Perhaps  he  may  have  something  to  say  to  me  confiden- 
tially." 

The  three  serious  gentlemen,  wlio  had  hitherto  remained 
aloof,  eying  Mr.  Chapman  much  as  three  inquisitors 
might  have  eyed  a  Jew,  shook  three  solemn  heads,  and 


336  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

set  the  example  of  retreat.  The  last  to  linger  were  the 
rival  proprietors  of  the  theater  and  the  city  concert-room. 
Each  whispered  the  stranger  —  one  the  left  ear,  one  the 
right.  Each  thrust  into  his  hand  a  printed  paper.  As 
the  door  closed  on  them  the  Comedian  let  fall  the 
papers ;  his  arm  drooped  to  his  side ;  his  whole  frame 
seemed  to  collapse.  Hartopp  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
led  him  gently  to  his  own  arm-chair  beside  the  table. 
The  Comedian  dropped  on  the  chair,  still  without 
speaking. 

Mr.  Hartopp.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  What  has 
happened  ? " 

Waife.  **  She  is  very  ill  —  in  a  bad  way ;  the  doctor 
says  so  —  Dr.  Gill." 

Mr.  Hartopp  (feelingly).  "  Your  little  girl  in  a  bad 
way  1  Oh,  no.  Doctors  always  exaggerate,  in  order  to 
get  more  credit  for  the  cure.  Not  that  I  would  disparage 
Dr.  Gill  —  fellow-townsman  —  first-rate  man;  still,  'tis 
the  way  with  doctors  to  talk  cheerfully  if  one  is  in  dan- 
ger, and  to  look  solemn  if  there  is  nothing  to  fear." 

Waife.  "Do  you  think  so  — you  have  children  of  your 
own.  Sir  ?  —  of  her  age,  too  ?  —  Eh  I  eh  ! " 

Mr.  Hartopp.  "  Yes  ;  I  know  all  about  children  — 
better,  I  think,  than  Mrs.  H.  does.  What  is  the  com- 
plaint ?  " 

Waife.   "The  doctor  says  it  is  low  fever." 

Mr.  Hartopp.  "  Caused  by  nervous  excitement,  per- 
haps." 

Waife  (looking  up).  "Yes  —  that's  what  he  says  — 
nervous  excitement." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  337 

Mr.  Hartopp.  "  Clever,  sensitive  children,  subjected 
precociously  to  emulation  and  emotion,  are  always  liable 
to  such  maladies.  My  third  girl,  Anna  Maria,  fell  into 
a  low  fever,  caused  by  nervous  excitement  in  trying  for 
school  prizes." 

Waife.   "  Did  she  die  of  it,  Sir  ? " 

Mr.  Hartopp  (shuddering)  "  Die  —  No  I  I  removed 
her  from  school  —  set  her  to  take  care  of  the  poultry  — 
forbade  all  French  exercises,  made  her  take  English 
exercise  instead  —  and  ride  on  a  donkey.  She's  quite 
another  thing  now  —  cheeks  as  read  as  an  apple,  and  as 
firm  as  a  cricket-ball." 

Waife.  "  I  will  keep  poultry ;  I  will  buy  a  donkey. 
Oh,  Sir  1  you  don't  think  she  will  go  to  heaven  yet,  and 
leave  me  here  ?  " 

Mr.  Hartopp.  "  Not  if  you  give  her  rest  and  quiet. 
But  no  excitement  —  no  exhibitions." 

Waife  (emptying  his  pockets  on  the  table).  "  Will 
you  kindly  count  that  money,  Sir?  Don't  you  think 
that  would  be  enough  to  find  her  some  pretty  lodging 
hereabouts  till  she  gets  quite  strong  again  ?  With  green 
fields  —  she's  fond  of  green  fields,  and  a  farm-yard  with 
poultry  —  though  we  were  lodging  a  few  days  ago  with  a 
good  woman  who  kept  hens,  and  Sophy  did  not  seem  to 
take  to  them  much.  A  canary  bird  is  more  of  a  com- 
panion, and — " 

Hartopp  (interrupting).  "  Ay  —  ay  —  and  you  1  what 
jv^ould  you  do  ?  " 

I.— 29  W 


338  T\'HAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH     IT? 

Waif E.  "  Why,  I  and  the  dog  would  go  away  for  a 
little  while  about  the  country." 

Hartopp.   "  Exhibiting  ?  " 

Watfe.  "  That  money  will  not  last  forever,  and  what 
can  we  do  —  I  and  the  dog  —  in  order  to  get  more  foi 
her  ? "' 

H.\JiTOPP  (pressing  his  hand  warmly).  "  You  are  a 
good  man,  Sir.  I  am  sure  of  it;  you  cannot  have  done 
things  which  you  should  be  afraid  to  tell  me.  Make  me 
your  confidant,  and  I  may  then  find  some  employment  fit 
for  you,  and  you  need  not  separate  yourself  from  your 
little  girl." 

Waife.  "  Separate  from  her  I  I  should  only  leave  her 
for  a  few  days  at  a  time  till  she  gets  well.  This  money 
will  keep  her  —  how  long  ?  Two  months  —  three  ?  —  how 
long? — the  Doctor  would  not  charge  much." 

Hartopp.  "  You  will  not  confide  in  me,  then  ?  At  your 
age  —  have  you  no  friends  —  no  one  to  speak  a  good  word 
for  you  ?  " 

Waife  (jerking  up  his  head  with  a  haughty  air).  "  So 
—  so  !  Who  talks  to  you  about  me,  Sir  ?  I  am  speaking 
of  my  innocent  child.  Does  she  want  a  good  word  spoken 
for  her?     Heaven  has  written  it  in  her  face." 

Hartopp  persisted  no  more  ;  the  excellent  man  was 
sincerely  grieved  at  his  visitor's  obstinate  avoidance  of 
the  true  question  at  issue ;  for  the  Mayor  could  have 
found  employment  for  a  man  of  Waife's  evident  education 
and  talent.  But  such  employment  would  entail  responsi- 
bilities and  trust.    How  recommend  to  it  a  man  of  whoso 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  339 

Kfe  and  circumstances  nothing  could  be  known  —  a  man 
without  a  character  ? — And  Waife  interested  him  deeply. 
We  have  all  felt  that  there  are  some  persons  toward  whom 
we  are  attracted  by  a  peculiar  sympathy  not  to  be  ex- 
plained—  a  something  in  the  manner,  the  cut  of  the  face, 
the  tone  of  the  voice.  If  there  are  fifty  applicants  for  a 
benefit  in  our  gift,  one  of  the  fifty  wins  his  way  to  our 
preference  at  first  sight,  though  with  no  better  right  to 
it  than  his  fellows.  We  can  no  more  say  why  we  like  the 
man  than  we  can  say  why  we  fall  in  love  with  a  woman 
in  whom  no  one  else  would  discover  a  charm.  "  There 
is,"  says  a  Latin  love-poet,  "no  why  or  wherefore  in 
liking."  Hartopp,  therefore,  had  taken,  from  the  first 
moment,  to  Waife — the  staid,  respectable,  thriving  man, 
all  muffled  up  from  head  to  foot  in  the  whitest  lawn  of 
reputation  —  to  the  wandering,  shifty,  tricksome  scatter 
ling,  who  had  not  seemingly  secured,  through  the  course 
of  a  life  bordering  upon  age,  a  single  certificate  for  good 
conduct.  On  his  hearthstone,  beside  his  ledger-book, 
stood  the  Mayor,  looking  witli  a  respectful  admiration 
that  puzzled  himself  upon  the  forlorn  creature,  who  could 
give  no  reason  why  he  should  not  be  rather  in  the  Gates- 
boro'  Parish  Stocks  than  in  its  chief  magistrate's  easy- 
chair.  Yet  were  the  Mayor's  sympathetic  liking  and 
respectful  admiration  wholly  unaccountable  ?  Runs  there 
not  between  one  warm  human  heart  and  another  the 
electric  chain  of  a  secret  understanding  ?  In  that  maimed 
outcast,  so  stubbornly  hard  to  himself — so  tremulously 
Bensitive  for  his  sick  child  —  was  there  not  the  majesty  to 


340  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

which  they  who  have  learned  that  Nature  has  her  nobles 
reverently  bow  the  head  I  A  man,  true  to  man's  grave 
religion,  can  no  more  despise  a  life  wrecked  in  all  else, 
while  a  hallowing  afifection  stands  out  sublime  through  the 
rents  and  chinks  of  fortune,  than  he  can  profane  with  rude 
mockery  a  temple  in  ruins  —  if  still  left  there  the  altar. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Very  well  so  far  as  it  goes. 

Mr.  Haetopp.  "  I  cannot  presume  to  question  you 
further,  Mr.  Chapman.  But  to  one  of  your  knowledge 
of  the  world,  I  need  not  say  that  your  silence  deprives 
me  of  the  power  to  assist  yourself.  We'll  talk  no  more 
of  that." 

Waife.  "Thank  you  gratefully,  Mr.  Mayor." 
Mr.  Hartopp.  "  But  for  the  little  girl,  make  your  mind 
easy  —  at  least  for  the  present.  I  will  place  her  at  my 
farm  cottage.  My  bailiff's  wife,  a  kind  woman,  will  take 
care  of  her,  while  you  pursue  your  calling  elsewhere.  As 
for  this  money,  you  will  want  it  yourself;  your  poor  little 
child  shall  cost  you  nothing.  So  that's  settled.  Let  me 
come  up  and  see  her.  I  am  a  bit  of  a  doctor  myself. 
Every  man  blessed  with  a  large  family,  in  whose  house 
there  is  always  some  interesting  case  of  small-pox, 
measles,  hooping-cough,  scarlatina,  etc.,  has  a  good 
private  practice  of  his  own.     I'm  not  brilliant  in  book- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  341 

learning,  Mr.  Chapman,  but  as  to  children's  complaints 
in  a  practical  way"  (added  Hartopp,  with  a  glow  of 
pride),  "  Mrs.  H.  says  she'd  rather  trust  the  little  ones  to 
me  tlian  Dr.  Gill.  I'll  see  your  child,  and  set  her  up,  I'll 
be  bound.  But  now  I  think  of  it,"  continued  Hartopp, 
softening  more  and  more,  "  if  exhibit  you  must,  why  not 
stay  at  Gatesboro'  for  a  time  ?  More  may  be  made  in 
this  town  than  elsewhere." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  could  not  have  the  heart  to  act  here  again 
without  her.  I  feel  at  present  as  if  I  can  never  again  act 
at  all  1  Something  else  will  turn  up.  Providence  is  so 
kind  to  me,  Mr.  Mayor." 

Waife  turned  to  the  door — "You  will  come  soon?" 
he  said,  anxiously. 

The  Mayor,  who  had  been  locking  up  his  ledgers  and 
papers,  replied,  "  I  will  but  stay  to  give  some  orders ;  in 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  shall  be  at  your  hotel." 


CHAPTER   XX. 

Sophy  hides  heart  and  shows  temper. 

Sophy  was  lying  on  a  sofa  drawn  near  the  window  in 
her  own  room,  and  on  her  lap  was  the  doll  Lionel  had 
given  to  her.  Carried  with  her  in  her  wanderings,  she 
had  never  played  with  it ;  never  altered  a  ribbon  in  its 
yellow  tresses ;  but  at  least  once  a  day  she  had  taken  it 
forlli  and  looked  at  it  in  secret.  And  all  that  morning, 
29* 


312  WH.AT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

left  much  to  herself,  it  had  been  her  companion.  She 
was  smoothing  down  its  frock,  which  she  fancied  had  got 
ruffled  —  smoothing  it  down  with  a  sort  of  fearful  tender- 
ness, the  doll  all  the  while  staring  her  full  in  the  fac5  with 
its  blue  bead  eyes.  Waife,  seated  near  her,  was  trying 
to  talk  gayly  ;  t3  invent  fairy  tales  blithe  with  sport  and 
fancy,  but  his  invention  flagged,  and  the  fairies  prosed 
awfully.  He  had  placed  the  dominoes  before  Sir  Isaac, 
but  Sophy  had  scarcely  looked  at  them,  from  the  languid, 
heavy  eyes  on  which  the  doll  so  stupidly  fixed  its  own. 
Sir  Isaac  himself  seemed  spiritless ;  he  was  aware  that 
something  was  wrong.  Now  and  then  he  got  up  rest- 
lessly, sniffed  the  dominoes,  and  placed  a  paw  gently, 
very  gently,  on  Sophy's  knee.  Not  being  encouraged, 
he  lay  down  again  uneasily,  often  shifting  his  position  as 
if  the  floor  was  grown  too  hard  for  him.  Thus  the  Mayor 
found  the  three.  He  approached  Sophy  with  the  step 
of  a  man  accustomed  to  sick  rooms  and  ailing  children  — 
step  light  as  if  shod  with  felt — ^put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  kissed  her  forehead,  and  then  took  the  doll. 
Sophy  started,  and  took  it  back  from  him  quickly,  but 
without  a  word  ;  then  she  hid  it  behind  her  pillow.  The 
Mayor  smiled —  "  My  dear  child,  do  you  think  I  should 
hurt  your  doll  ?  " 

Sophy  colored,  and  said  murmuringly,  "  No,  Sir,  not 
hurt  it,  but — "  she  stopped  short. 

"  I  have  been  talking  to  your  grandpapa  about  you, 
ray  dear,  and  we  both  wish  to  give  you  a  little  holiday. 
Dolls  are  well  enough  for  the  whiter,  but  green  fields  and 
daisy-chains  for  the  summer." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  343 

Sophy  glanced  from  the  Mayor  to  her  grandfather,  and 
back  again  to  the  Mayor,  shook  her  curls  from  her  eyea 
!\nd  looked  seriously  inquisitive. 

The  Mayor,  observing  her  quietly,  stole  her  hand  into 
his  own,  feeling  the  pulse  as  if  merely  caressing  the  tender 
wrist.  Then  he  began  to  describe  his  bailiff's  cottage, 
with  woodbine  round  the  porch,  the  farm-yard,  the  bee- 
hives, the  pretty  duck-pond  with  an  osier  island,  and  the 
great  China  gander  who  had  a  pompous  strut,  which 
made  him  the  drollest  creature  possible.  And  Sophy 
should  go  there  in  a  day  or  two,  and  be  as  happy  as  one 
of  the  bees,  but  not  so  busy. 

Sophy  listened  very  earnestly,  very  gravely,  and  then 
sliding  her  hand  from  the  Mayor,  caught  hold  of  her 
grandfather's  arm  firmly,  and  said,  "  And  you,  Grandy — 
will  you  like  it  ?  won't  it  be  dull  for  you,  Grandy  dear  ?  " 

"  Why,  my  darling,"  said  Waife,  "  I  and  Sir  Isaac  will 
go  and  take  a  stroll  about  the  country  for  a  few  weeks, 
and—" 

Sophy  (passionately).  "I  thought  so;  I  thought  he 
meant  that.  I  tried  not  to  believe  it;  go  away  —  you  ? 
and  who's  to  take  care  of  you  ?  who'll  understand  you  ? 
I  want  care!  I  —  I!  No,  no:  it  is  you  —  you  who 
want  care.  I  shall  be  well  to-morrow  —  quite  \vell,  don't 
fear.  He  shall  not  be  sent  away  from  me  ;  he  shall  not. 
Sir.  Oh,  grandfather,  grandfather,  how  could  you?" 
She  flung  herself  on  his  breast,  clinging  there ;  clinging 
as  if  infancy  and  age  were  but  parts  of  the  same  whole. 

"But,"  said  the  Mayor,  "it  is  not  as  if  you  were  going 


344  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    It7 

to  school,  my  dear ;  you  are  going  for  a  holiday.  And 
your  grandfather  must  leave  you  —  must  travel  about  — 
'tis  his  calling.  If  you  fell  ill  and  were  with  him,  think 
how  much  you  would  be  in  his  way.  Do  you  know,"  he 
added,  smiling,  ''I  shall  begin  to  fear  that  you  are 
selfish." 

"  Selfish  ! "  exclaimed  Waife,  angrily. 

"  Selfish  I "  echoed  Sophy,  with  a  melancholy  scorn 
that  came  from  a  sentiment  so  deep  that  mortal  eye  could 
scarce  fathom  it.  "  Oh,  no,  Sir  I  can  you  say  it  is  for  his 
good,  not  for,  what  he  supposes,  mine,  that  you  want  us 
to  part  ?  The  pretty  cottage  —  and  all  for  me  —  and 
what  for  him?  —  tramp,  tramp  along  the  hot,  dusty 
roads.  Do  you  see  that  he  is  lame  ?  Oh,  Sir,  I  know 
him  —  you  don't.  Selfish  !  he  would  have  no  merry  ways 
that  make  you  laugh  without  me ;  would  you,  Grandy, 
dear?  Go  away,  you  are  a  naughty  man  —  go,  or  I 
shall  hate  you  as  much  as  that  dreadful  Mr.  Bugge." 

''Rugge  —  who  is  he?"  said  the  Mayor,  curiously, 
catching  at  any  clew. 

"Hush,  my  darling!  —  hush  1 "  said  Waife,  fondling 
her  on  his  breast.     "  Hush  1    What  is  to  be  done.  Sir  ?  " 

Hartopp  made  a  sly  sign  to  him  to  say  no  more  before 
Sophy,  and  then  replied,  addressing  himself  to  her  — 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  Nothing  shall  be  done,  my 
dear  child,  that  you  dislike.  I  don't  wish  to  part  you 
two.  Don't  hate  me  —  lie  down  again  —  that's  a  dear. 
There,  I  have  smoothed  your  pillow  for  you ;  oh,  here'? 
your  pretty  doll  again." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  345 

Sophy  snatched  at  the  doll  petulantly,  and  made  what 
the  French  call  a  moue  at  the  good  man,  as  she  suffered 
her  grandfather  to  replace  her  on  the  sofa. 

"  She  has  a  strong  temper  of  her  own,"  muttered  the 
Alayor  ;   "  so  has  Anna  Maria  a  strong  temper  I  " 

Now,  if  I  were  anyway  master  of  my  own  pen,  and 
could  write  as  I  pleased,  without  being  hurried  along, 
helter-skelter,  by  the  tyrannical  exactions  of  that  "  young 
Rapid"  in  buskins  and  chiton,  called  "The  Historic 
Muse,"  I  would  break  off  this  chapter,  open  my  window, 
rest  my  eyes  on  the  green  lawn  without,  and  indulge  in  a 
rhapsodical  digression  upon  that  beautifier  of  the  moral 
life,  which  is  called  "Good  Temper."  Ha! — the  His- 
toric Muse  is  dozing.     By  her  leave  I  —  Softly. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

Being  an  Essay  on  Temper  in  general,  and  a  hazardous  experiment 
on  the  reader's  in  particular. 

There,  the  window  is  open  !  how  instinctively  the  eye 
rests  rpon  the  green  I  how  the  calm  color  lures  and 
soothes  it !  But  is  there  to  the  green  only  a  single  hue  ? 
See  how  infinite  the  variety  of  its  tints  I  What  sombre 
gravity  in  yon  cedar,  yon  motionless  pine-tree  I  What 
lively  but  unvarying  laugh  in  yon  glossy  laurels  !  Do 
those  tints  charm  us  like  the  play  in  the  young  leaves  of 
tne  lilac  —  lighter  here,  darker  there,  as  the  breeze  (and 


o46  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

SO  light  the  breeze!)  sth's  them  into  checker  —  into 
ripple  ?  Oh  sweet  green,  to  the  world  what  sweet  tem- 
per is  to  man's  life  !  Who  would  reduce  into  one  dye  all 
thy  lovely  varieties  ?  who  exclude  the  dark  steadfast  ver- 
dure that  lives  on  through  the  winter  day  ;  or  the  muti- 
nous caprice  of  the  gentler,  younger  tint  that  came  fresh 
through  the  tears  of  April,  and  will  shadow  with  sportive 
tremor  the  blooms  of  luxuriant  June  ? 

Happy  the  man  on  whose  marriage-hearth  temper 
smiles  kind  from  the  eyes  of  woman  1  "  Xo  deity  present," 
saith  the  heathen  proverb,  "where  absent — Prudence" 
. —  no  joy  long  a  guest  where  Peace  is  not  a  dweller. 
Peace,  so  like  Faith,  that  they  may  be  taken  for  each 
other,  and  poets  have  clad  them  with  the  same  vail.  But 
in  childhood,  in  early  youth,  expect  not  the  changeless 
green  of  the  cedar.  Wouldst  thou  distinguish  fine  temper 
from  spiritless  dullness,  from  cold  simulation  —  ask  less 
what  the  temper,  than  what  the  disposition. 

Is  the  nature  sweet  and  trustful,  is  it  free  from  the 
morbid  self-love  which  calls  itself  "sensitive  feeling,"  and 
frets  at  imaginary  offenses ;  is  the  tendency  to  be  grateful 
for  kindness  —  yet  take  kindness  meekly,  and  accept  as  a 
benefit  what  the  vain  call  a  due  ?  From  dispositions  thus 
blessed,  sweet  temper  will  come  forth  to  gladden  thee, 
spontaneous  and  free.  Quick  with  some,  with  some  slow, 
word  and  look  emerge  out  of  the  heart.  Be  thy  first 
question,  "  Is  the  heart  itself  generous  and  tender  ?  "  If 
it  be  so,  self-control  comes  with  deepening  affection.  Call 
not  that  a  good  heart  which,  hastening  to  sting  if  a  fiber 
be  ruffled,  cries,  "I  am  no  hypocrite."     Accept  that  ex- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  347 

case,  and  revenge  becomes  virtue.  But  where  the  heart, 
if  it  give  the  offense,  pines  till  it  win  back  the  pardon ;  if 
offended  itself,  bounds  forth  to  forgive,  ever  longing  to 
soothe,  ever  grieved  if  it  wound  ;  then  be  sure  that  its 
nobleness  will  need  but  few  trials  of  pain  in  each  outbreak, 
to  refine  and  chastise  its  expression.  Fear  not  then  ;  be 
but  noble  thyself,  thou  art  safe  ! 

Yet  what  in  childhood  is  often  called,  rcbukinglj, 
"temper,"  is  but  the  cordial  and  puissant  vitality  which 
contains  all  the  elements  that  make  temper  the  sweetest 
at  last.  Who  among  us,  how  wise  soever,  can  construe  a 
child's  heart  ?  who  conjecture  all  the  springs  that  secretly 
vibrate  within,  to  a  touch  on  the  surface  of  feeling?  Each 
child,  but  especially  the  girl-child,  would  task  the  whole 
lore  of  a  sage,  deep  as  Shakspeare,  to  distinguish  those 
subtle  emotions  which  we  grown  folks  have  outlived. 

"She  has  a  strong  temper,"  said  the  Mayor,  when 
Sophy  snatched  the  doll  from  his  hand  a  second  time,  and 
pouted  at  him,  spoiled  child,  looking  so  divinely  cross, 
so  petulantly  pretty.  And  how  on  earth  could  the  Mayor 
know  what  associations  with  that  stupid  doll  made  her 
think  it  profaned  by  the  touch  of  a  stranger  ?  Was  it  to 
her  eyes  as  to  his  —  mere  wax-work  and  frippery,  or  a 
symbol  of  holy  remembrances,  of  gleams  into  a  fairer 
world,  of  "  devotion  to  something  afar  from  the  sphere 
of  her  sorrow  ? "  Was  not  the  evidence  of  "  strong 
temper"  the  very  sign  of  affectionate  depth  of  heart? 
Poor  little  Sophy.  Hide  it  again  —  safe  out  of  sight  — 
close,  inscrutable,  unguessed,  as  childhood's  first  treasures 
of  sentiment  ever  are  I 


348  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IXf 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

riie  object  of  Civilization  being  always  to  settle  people  one  way  or 
the  other,  the  Mayor  of  Gatesboro'  entertains  a  statesmanlike 
ambition  to  settle  Gentleman  Waife :  no  doubt  a  wise  conception, 
and  in  accordance  with  the  genius  of  the  Nation. —  Every  Session 
of  Parliament,  England  is  employed  in  settling  folks,  whether  at 
home  or  at  the  Antipodes,  who  ignorantly  object  to  be  settled  in 
her  way ;  in  short,  "  I'll  settle  them,"  has  become  a  vulgar  idiom, 
tantamount  to  a  threat  of  uttermost  extermination  or  sms^sh. — 
Therefore  the  Mayor  of  Gatesboro',  harboring  that  benignant 
idea  with  reference  to  *'  Gentleman  Waife,"  all  kindly  readers  will 
exclaim,  "  Dii,  Meliora  !     What  will  he  do  with  it?" 

The  doll  once  more  safe  hehiud  the  pillow,  Sophy's 
face  gradually  softened ;  she  bent  forward,  touched  the 
Mayor's  hand  timidly,  and  looked  at  him  with  pleading, 
penitent  eyes,  still  wet  with  tears  —  eyes  that  said,  though 
the  lips  were  silent  —  "I'll  not  hate  you.  I  was  ungrate- 
ful and  peevish ;  may  I  beg  pardon  ?  " 

"  I  forgive  you  with  all  my  heart,"  cried  the  Mayor, 
interpreting  the  look  aright.  "And  now  try  and  com- 
pose yourself  and  sleep  while  I  talk  with  your  grandpapa 
below." 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  is  possible  that  I  can  leave  her,'* 
said  Waife,  when  the  two  men  had  adjourned  to  the 
sitting-room. 

"  I  am  sure,"  quoth  the  Mayor,  seriously,  "  that  it  is 
the  best  thing  for  her ;  her  pulse  has  much  nervou?  ey- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  349 

citability ;  she  wants  a  complete  rest ;  she  ouglit  not  to 
move  about  with  you  on  any  account.  But  come — though 
I  must  not  know,  it  seems,  who  and  what  you  are,  Mr. 
Chapman  —  I  don't  think  you  will  run  off  with  my  cows, 
and  if  you  like  to  stay  at  the  Bailiff's  Cottage  for  a  week 
or  two  with  your  grandchild,  you  shall  be  left  in  peace, 
and  asked  no  questions.  I  will  own  to  you  a  weakness 
of  mine  —  I  value  myself  on  being  seldom  or  never  taken 
in.  I  don't  think  I  could  forgive  the  man  who  did  take 
me  in.  But  taken  in  I  certainly  shall  be,  if,  despite  all 
your  mystery,  you  are  not  as  honest  a  fellow  as  ever 
stood  upon  shoe-leather  1     So  come  to  the  cottage." 

Waife  was  very  much  affected  by  this  confiding  kind- 
ness ;  but  he  shook  his  head  despondently,  and  that  same 
abject,  almost  cringing  humility  of  mien  and  manner 
which  had  pained,  at  times,  Lionel  and  Yance,  crept 
over  the  whole  man,  so  that  he  seemed  to  co\\'/  and 
shrink  as  a  Pariah  before  a  Brahman.  "  No,  Sir  ;  thank 
you  most  humbly.  No,  Sir  —  that  must  not  be.  i  must 
work  for  my  daily  bread,  if  what  a  poor  vagabc  ad  like 
me  may  do  can  be  called  work.  I  have  made  i:  a  rule 
for  years  not  to  force  myself  to  the  hearth  and  1  ome  of 
any  kind  man,  who,  not  knowing  my  past,  has  a  right  to 
suspect  me.  Where  I  lodge,  I  pay  as  a  lodger ;  or  what- 
ever favor  shown  me  spares  my  purse,  I  try  to  return  ia 
some  useful,  humble  way.  Why,  Sir,  how  could  I  make 
free  and  easy  with  another  man's  board  and  roof-tree  for 
days  or  weeks  together,  when  I  would  not  even  come  to 
your  hearthstone  for  a  cup  of  tea  ?  "   The  Mayor  remem- 

I.— 30 


S50  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

bered,  and  was  startled.  Waife  hurried  on.  "  But  for 
my  poor  child  I  have  no  such  scruples  —  no  shame,  no 
false  pride.  I  take  what  you  offer  her  gratefully  —  grate- 
fully. Ah,  Sir,  she  is  not  in  her  right  place  with  me; 
but  there's  no  kicking  against  the  pricks.  Where  was  I  ? 
Oil !  well,  I  tell  you  what  we  will  do,  Sir.  I  will  take 
her  1o  the  Cottage  in  a  day  or  two  —  as  soon  as  she  is 
well  enough  to  go  —  and  spend  the  day  with  her,  and 
deceive  her.  Sir !  yes,  deceive,  cheat  her.  Sir !  I  am  a 
cheat  —  a  player  —  and  she'll  think  I'm  going  to  stay  with 
her ;  and  at  night,  when  she's  asleep,  I'll  creep  off,  I  and 
the  other  dog.  But  I'll  leave  a  letter  for  her  —  it  will 
soothe  her,  and  she'll  be  patient  and  wait.  I  will  come 
back  again  to  see  her  in  a  week,  and  once  every  week  till 
she's  well  again." 

"  And  what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"I  don't  know" — but,  said  the  actor,  forcing  a  laugh 
— "  I'm  not  a  man  likely  to  starve.  Oh,  never  fear, 
Sir  !  " 

So  the  Mayor  went  away,  and  strolled  across  the 
fields  to  his  Bailiff's  cottage,  to  prepare  for  the  guest  it 
would  receive. 

"  It  is  all  very  well  that  the  poor  man  should  be  away 
for  some  days,"  thought  Mr.  Hartopp.  "Before  he 
comes  again,  I  shall  have  hit  on  some  plan  to  serve  him  ; 
and  I  can  learn  more  about  him  from  the  child  in  his 
absence,  and  see  what  he  is  really  fit  for.  There's  a 
schoolmaster  wanted  in  Morley's  village.  Old  Morley 
wrote  to  me  to  recommend  him  one.     Good   salary  — 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  361 

pretty  house.  But  it  would  be  wrong  to  set  over  young 
children— recommend  to  a  respectable  proprietor  and  his 
parson  —  a  man  whom  I  know  nothing  about.  Imposr 
sible  !  that  will  not  do.  If  there  was  any  place  of  light 
service  which  did  not  require  trust  or  responsibility — but 
there  is  no  such  place  in  Great  Britain.  Suppose  I  were 
to  set  him  up  in  some  easy  way  of  business — a  little  shop, 
eh  ?  I  don't  know.  What  would  Williams  say  ?  If,  in- 
deed, I  were  taken  in  I — if  the  man  I  am  thus  credulously 
trusting  turned  out  a  rogue"  —  the  Mayor  paused  and 
actually  shivered  at  that  thought  —  "why  then,  I  should 
be  fallen  indeed.  My  wife  would  not  let  me  have  half-a- 
crown  in  my  pockets ;  and  I  could  not  walk  a  hundred 
yards  but  Williams  would  be  at  my  heels  to  protect  me 
from  being  stolen  by  gipsies.  Taken  in  by  him  I  No, 
impossible  J  But  if  it  turn  out  as  I  suspect  —  that  con- 
trary to  vulgar  prudence,  I  am  divining  a  really  great 
and  good  man  in  difficulties  —  Aha,  what  a  triumph  I 
shall  then  gain  over  them  all.  How  Williams  will  revere 
me  ! "  The  good  man  laughed  aloud  at  that  thought, 
and  walked  on  with  a  prouder  step. 


852  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A  pretty  trifle  in  its  way,  no  doubt,  is  the  love  between  youth  and 
youth.  —  Gay  varieties  of  the  bauble  spread  the  counter  of  the 
Great  Toy-Shop. — But  thou,  courteous  Dame  Nature,  raise  thine 
arm  to  yon  shelf,  somewhat  out  of  everyday  reach,  and  bring 
me  down  that  obsolete,  neglected,  unconsidered  thing,  the  Love 
between  Age  and  Childhood. 

The  next  day  Sophy  was  better  —  the  day  after,  im- 
provement was  more  visible — and  on  the  third  day  Waife 
paid  his  bill,  and  conducted  her  to  the  rural  abode  to 
which,  credulous  at  last  of  his  promises  to  share  it  with 
her  for  a  time,  he  enticed  her  fated  steps.  It  was  little 
more  than  a  mile  beyond  the  suburbs  of  the»town,  and 
though  the  walk  tired  her,  she  concealed  fatigue,  and 
would  not  suffer  him  to  carry  her.  The  cottage  now 
smiled  out  before  them  —  thatched  gable  roof,  with  fancy 
barge  board — half  Swiss,  half  what  is  called  Elizabethan 
■ —  all  the  fences  and  sheds  round  it,  as  only  your  rich 
traders,  condescending  to  turn  farmers,  construct  and 
maintain  —  sheds  and  fences,  trim  and  neat,  as  if  models 
in  waxwork.  The  breezy  air  came  fresh  from  the  new 
haystacks  —  from  the  woodbine  round  the  porch  —  from 
the  breath  of  the  lazy  kine,  as  they  stood  knee-deep  in 
the  pool,  that,  belted  with  weeds  and  broad-leaved  water 
lilies,  lay  calm  and  gleaming  amidst  level  pastures. 

Involuntarily  they  arrested  their  steps,  to  gaze  on  the 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  353 

rheerful  landscape  and  inhale  the  balmy  air.  Meanwhile 
the  Mayor  came  out  from  the  cottage  porch,  his  wife 
leaning  on  his  arm,  and  two  of  his  younger  children 
bounding  on  before,  with  joyous  faces,  giving  chase  to  a 
gaudy  butterfly  which  they  had  started  from  the  wood- 
bine. 

Mrs.  Hartopp  had  conceived  a  lively  curiosity  to  see 
and  judge  for  herself  of  the  objects  of  her  liege  lord's 
benevolent  interest.  She  shared,  of  course,  the  anxiety 
which  formed  the  standing  excitement  of  all  those  who 
lived  but  for  one  godlike  purpose  —  that  of  preserving 
Josiah  Hartopp  from  being  taken  in.  But  whenever  the 
Mayor  specially  wished  to  secure  his  wife's  countenance 
to  any  pet  project  of  his  own,  and  convince  her  either 
that  he  was  not  taken  in,  or  that  to  be  discreetly  taken 
in  is,  in  this  world,  a  very  popular  and  sure  mode  of  get- 
ting up,  he  never  failed  to  attain  his  end.  That  man 
was  the  cunningest  creature  !  As  full  of  wiles  and  strata- 
gems in  order  to  get  his  own  way — in  benevolent  objects 
—  as  men  who  set  up  to  be  clever  are  for  selfish  ones. 
Mrs.  Hartopp  was  certainly  a  good  woman,  but  a  made 
good  woman.  Married  to  another  man,  I  suspect  that 
she  would  have  been  a  shrew.  Petruchio  would  have 
tamed  her,  I'lL  swear.  But  she,  poor  lady,  had  been 
gradually,  but  completely  subdued,  subjugated,  absolutely 
cowed  beneath  the  weight  of  her  spouse's  despotic  mild- 
ness :  for  in  Hartopp  there  was  a  weight  of  soft  quietude, 
of  placid  oppression,  wholly  irresistible.  It  would  have 
buried  a  Titaness  under  a  Pelion  of  moral  feather-beds 
30*  X 


351  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

Mass  upon  mass  of  downy  inflnence  descended  upon  yon, 
seemingly  yielding  as  it  fell,  enveloping,  oyerbearing, 
stifling  you  ;  not  presenting  a  single  hard  point  of  con- 
tact ;  giving  in  as  you  pushed  against  it ;  suppleing  itself 
seductively  round  you,  softer  and  softer,  heavier  and 
heavier,  till,  I  assure  you,  ma'am,  no  matter  how  high 
your  natural  wifely  spirit,  you  would  have  had  it  smothered 
out  of  you,  your  last  rebellious  murmur  dying  languidly 
away  under  the  descending  fleeces. 

"  So  kind  in  you  to  come  with  me,  Mary,"  said  Har- 
topp.  "  I  could  not  have  been  happy  without  your  ap- 
proval :  look  at  the  child — something  about  her  like  Mary 
Anne,  and  Mary  Anne  is  the  picture  of  you  ! " 

Waife  advanced,  uncovering;  the  two  children,  having 
lost  trace  of  the  butterfly,  had  run  up  toward  Sophy. 
But  her  shy  look  made  themselves  shy — shyness  is  so  con- 
tagious—  and  they  stood  a  little  aloof,  gazing  at  her. 
Sir  Isaac  stalked  direct  to  the  Mayor,  sniffed  at  him,  and 
wagged  his  tail. 

Mrs.  Hartopp  now  bent  over  Sophy,  and  acknowledg- 
ing that  the  face  was  singularly  pretty,  glanced  graciously 
toward  her  husband,  and  said,  "  I  see  the  likeness  I  "  then 
to  Sophy,  "I  fear  you  are  tired,  my  dear  ;  you  must  net 
over-fatigue  yourself — and  you  must  take  milk  fresh  from 
the  cow  every  morning."  And  now  the  bailiff's  wife  came 
briskly  out,  a  tidy,  fresh-colored,  kind-faced  woman,  fond 
of  children  —  the  more  so  because  she  had  none  of  her 
own. 

So  they  entered  the  farm-yard  —  Mrs.  Hartopp  being 


WHAT    WILL    nE    DO    WITH    IT?  355 

the  chief  talker ;  and  she,  liaving  pointed  out  to  Sophy 
the  cows  and  the  turkej'S,  the  hen-coops  and  the  great 
Cliina  gander,  led  her  by  the  one  hand  —  while  Sophy's 
other  hand  clung  firmly  to  Waife's  —  across  the  little 
garden,  with  its  patent  bee-hives,  into  the  house,  took  off 
her  bonnet,  and  kissed  her.  "  Yery  like  Mary  Anne  !  — 
Mary  Anne,  dear."  One  of  the  two  children  owning  that 
name  approached  —  snub-nosed,  black-eyed,  with  cheeks 
like  peonies.  "  This  little  girl,  my  Mary  Anne,  w^as  as 
pale  as  you  —  over-study;  and  now,  my  dear  child,  you 
must  try  and  steal  a  little  of  her  color.  Don't  you  think 
my  Mary  Anne  is  like  her  papa,  Mr.  Chapman  ? " 

"  Like  me  I "  exclaimed  the  Mayor  ;  whispering  Waife, 
"  image  of  her  mother !  the  same  intellectual  look  I " 

Said  the  artful  actor,  "Indeed,  ma'am,  the  young  lady 
has  her  father's  mouth  and  eyebrows,  but  that  acute, 
sensible  expression  is  yours  —  quite  yours.  Sir  Isaac, 
make  a  bow  to  the  young  lady,  and  then,  Sir,  go  through 
the  sword-exercise ! " 

The  dog,  put  upon  his  tricks,  delighted  the  children ; 
and  the  poor  actor,  though  his  heart  lay  in  his  breast 
like  lead,  did  his  best  to  repay  benevolence  by  mirth. 
Finally,  much  pleased,  Mrs.  Hartopp  took  her  husband's 
arm  to  depart.  The  children,  on  being  separated  from 
Sir  Isaac,  began  to  cry.  The  Mayor  interrupted  his 
wife  —  who,  if  left  to  herself,  would  have  scolded  them 
into  worse  crying — told  Mary  Anne  that  he  relied  on  her 
strong  intellect  to  console  her  brother  Tom  ;  observed  to 
Tom  that  it  was  not  like  his  manly  nature  to  set  an  ex- 


356  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

ample  of  weeping  to  his  sister ;  and  contrived  thus  to 
flatter  their  tears  awaj  in  a  trice,  and  sent  them  forward 
in  a  race  to  the  turnstile. 

Waife  and  Sophy  were  alone  in  the  cottage  parlor  — 
Mrs.  Gooch,  the  bailifif's  wife,  walking  part  of  the  way- 
back  with  the  good  couple,  in  order  to  show  the  Mayor 
a  heifer  who  had  lost  appetite  and  taking  to  moping. 
"Let  us  steal  out  into  the  back  garden,  my  darling," 
said  Waife  ;  "  I  see  an  arbor  there,  where  I  will  compose 
myself  with  a  pipe,  a  liberty  I  should  not  like  to  take  in- 
doors." They  stepped  across  the  threshold,  and  gained 
the  arbor,  which  stood  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  small 
kitchen-garden,  and  commanded  a  pleasant  view  of  past- 
ures and  corn-fields,  backed  by  the  blue  outline  of  dis- 
tant hills.  Afar  were  faintly  heard  the  laugh  of  the 
Mayor's  happy  children,  now  and  then  a  tinkling  sheep- 
bell,  or  the  tap  of  the  wood-pecker,  unrepressed  by  the 
hush  of  the  midmost  summer,  which  stills  the  more  tune- 
ful choristers  amidst  their  coverts.  Waife  lighted  his 
pipe,  and  smoked  silently ;  Sophy,  resting  her  head  on 
his  bosom,  silent  also.  She  was  exquisitely  sensitive  to 
nature  ;  the  quiet  beauty  of  all  round  her  was  soothing  a 
spirit  lately  troubled,  and  health  came  stealing  gently 
back  through  frame  and  through  heart.  At  length  she 
eried  softly,  "  We  could  be  so  happy  here,  grandfather  1 
It  can  not  last,  can  it  ? " 

"'Tis  no  use  in  this  life,  my  dear,"  returned  Waife, 
philosophizing ;  "no  use  at  all  disturbing  present  happiness 
by  asking  '  can  it  last  ? '     To-day  is  man's,  to-morrow  his 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  35T 

Maker's.  But  tell  rae  frankly,  do  you  really  dislike  so 
much  the  idea  of  exhibiting  ?  I  don't  mean  as  we  did  in 
Mr.  Ruggers  show — I  know  you  hate  that  —  but  in  a 
genteel  private  way,  as  the  other  night.  You  sigh  I  Out 
with  it." 

"I  like  what  you  like,  Grandy." 

"  That's  not  true.  I  like  to  smoke  ;  you  don't.  Come, 
you  do  dislike  acting?  Why?  You  do  it  so  well  — 
wonderfully.  Generally  speaking,  people  like  what  they 
do  well." 

"  It  is  not  the  acting  itself,  Grandy,  dear,  that  I  don't 
like.  When  I  am  in  some  part  I  am  carried  away  —  I 
am  not  myself.     I  am  some  one  else  ! " 

"And  the  applause  ?  " 

"  I  don't  feel  it.  I  dare  say  I  should  miss  it  if  it  did 
not  come ;  but  it  does  not  seem  to  me  as  if  /  were  ap- 
plauded. If  I  felt  that,  I  should  stop  short,  and  get 
frightened.  It  is  as  if  that  somebody  else  into  whom  I 
was  changed  was  making  friends  with  the  audience  ;  and 
all  my  feeling  is  for  that  somebody — just  as,  Grandy 
dear,  when  it  is  over,  and  we  two  are  alone  together,  all 
my  feeling  is  for  you  —  at  least  (hanging  down  her  head,) 
it  used  to  be ;  but  lately,  somehow,  I  am  ashamed  to 
think  how  I  have  been  feeling  for  myself  more  than  for 
you.  Is  it  —  is  it  that  I  am  growing  selfish  ?  as  Mr. 
Mayor  said.     Oh,  no.     Now  we  are  here  —  not  in  those 

noisy  towns  —  not  in  the  inns  and  on  the  highways  ; 

now,  here,  here,  I  do  feel  again  for  you  —  all  for  you  !  " 

"  You    are    mv    little   angel,   you   are,"   said    Waife. 


358  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

tremulouslj.  "  Selfish  \  you  !  a  good  joke  that !  Now 
you  see,  I  am  not  what  is  called  Demonstrative  —  a  long 
word,  Sophy,  which  means  that  I  don't  show  to  you 
always  how  fond  I  am  of  you  ;  and,  indeed,"  he  added,  in- 
genuously, "I  am  not  always  aware  of  it  myself;  I  like 
acting  —  I  like  the  applause,  and  the  lights,  and  the  ex- 
citement, and  the  illusion  —  the  make-belief  of  the  whole 
thing  ;  it  takes  me  out  of  memory  and  thought  —  it  is  a 
world  that  has  neither  past,  present,  nor  future,  an  inter- 
lude in  time  —  an  escape  from  space.  I  suppose  it  is  the 
same  with  poets  when  they  are  making  verses.  Yes,  I 
like  all  this ;  and,  when  I  think  of  it,  I  forget  you  too 
much.  And  I  never  observed  —  Heaven  forgive  me  \  — 
that  you  were  pale  and  drooping,  till  it  was  pointed  out 
to  me.  Well,  take  away  your  arms.  Let  us  consult. 
As  soon  as  you  get  quite,  quite  well  —  how  shall  we  live  ? 
what  shall  we  do  ?  You  are  as  wise  as  a  little  woman, 
and  such  a  careful,  prudent  housekeeper ;  and  I'm  such  a 
harum-scarum  old  fellow,  without  a  sound  idea  in  my 
head,  what  shall  we  do  if  we  give  up  acting  altogether  ?" 

"  Give  up  acting  altogether,  when  you  like  it  so  !  No 
—  no.  I  will  like  it  too,  Grandy.  But  —  but  —  "  she 
Etopped  short,  afraid  to  imply  blame  or  to  give  pain. 

"But  what  —  let  us  make  clean  breasts,  one  to  the 
other ;  tell  truth,  and  shame  the  Father  of  Lies.  ' 

"  Tell  truth  —  "  said  Sophy,  lifting  up  to  him  her  pure 
eyes  with  such  heavenly,  loving  kindness,  that  if  the  words 
did  imply  reproof,  the  eyes  stole  it  away.  "  Could  we 
but  manage  to  tell  truth  off  the  stage,  I  should  not  dislike 


.       WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  359 

acting.  Oh,  grandfather,  when  that  kind  gentleman  and 
his  lady  and  those  merry  children  come  up  and  speak  to 
as,  don't  you  feel  ready  to  creep  into  the  earth  ?  —  I  do. 
Are  we  telling  truth  ?  Are  we  living  truth  ?  one  name 
to-day,  another  name  to-morrow  ?  I  should  not  mind 
acting  on  a  stage  or  in  a  room,  for  the  time,  but  always 
acting,  always  —  we  ourselves  '  make-beliefs  I '  Grand- 
father, must  that  be  ?  They  don't  do  it ;  I  mean  by  they, 
all  who  are  good,  and  looked  up  to,  and  respected,  as  — 
as  —  oh,  Grandy  —  Grandy  —  what  am  I  saying  ?  I 
have  pained  you." 

Waife  indeed  was  striving  hard  to  keep  down  emotion ; 
but  his  lips  were  set  firmly  and  the  blood  had  left  them, 
and  his  hands  were  trembling. 

"We  must  hide  ourselves,"  he  said,  in  a  very  low 
voice,  "  we  must  take  false  names — I — because — because 
of  reasons  I  can't  tell  even  to  you  —  and  you,  because  I 
failed  to  get  you  a  proper  home,  where  you  ought  to  be ; 
and  there  is  one  who,  if  he  pleases,  and  he  may  please  it 
any  day,  could  take  you  away  from  me,  if  he  found  you 
out  —  and  so  —  and  so."  He  paused  abruptly,  looked 
at  her  fearful  wondering  soft  face,  and  rising,  drew 
himself  up  with  one  of  those  rare  outbreaks  of  dignity 
which  elevated  the  whole  character  of  his  person.  "  But 
as  for  me,"  said  he,  "if  I  have  lost  all  name  —  if  while 
I  live,  I  must  be  this  wandering,  skulking  outcast,  —  look 
above,  Sophy  —  look  up  above,  there  all  secrets  will  be 
known  —  all  hearts  read  —  and  there  my  best  hope  to  find 
a  place  in  which  I  may  wait  your  coming,  is,  in  what  has 


360  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

lost  me  all  birthright  here.  Not  to  exalt  myself  do  I 
say  this  —  no  ;  but  that  you  may  have  comfort,  darling, 
if  ever  hereafter  you  are  pained  by  what  men  say  tc  you 
of  me." 

As  he  spoke,  the  expression  of  his  face,  at  first  solemn 
and  lofty,  relaxed  into  melancholy  submission.  Then 
passing  his  arm  into  hers,  and  leaning  on  it  as  if  sunk 
once  more  into  the  broken  cripple  needing  her  frail  sup- 
port, he  drew  her  forth  from  the  arbor,  and  paced  the  little 
garden  slowly,  painfully.  At  length  he  seemed  to  recover 
himself,  and  said  in  his  ordinary  cheerful  tone,  "  But  to 
the  point  in  question,  suppose  we  have  done  with  acting 
and  roaming,  and  keep  to  one  name,  and  settle  somewhere 
like  plain  folks,  again  I  ask  —  how  shall  we  live  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  that,"  answered  Sophy. 
"  You  remember  that  those  good  Miss  Burtons  taught  me 
all  kinds  of  needle-work,  and  I  know  people  can  make 
money  by  needle-work.  And  then,  Grandy  dear,  what 
can't  you  do  ?  Do  you  forget  Mrs.  Saunders's  books 
that  you  bound,  and  her  cups  and  saucers  that  you 
mended  ?  So  we  would  both  work,  and  have  a  little 
cottage  and  a  garden,  that  we  could  take  care  of,  and  sell 
the  herbs  and  vegetables.  Oh,  I  have  thought  over  it 
all,  the  last  fortnight,  a  hundred  hundred  times,  only  I 
did  not  dare  to  speak  first." 

Waife  listened  very  attentively.  "I  can  make  very 
good  baskets,"  said  he,  rubbing  his  chin,  "  famous  baskets 
(if  one  could  hire  a  bit  of  osier  ground);  and,  as  you  say, 
there  miji^ht  be  other  fancy  articles  I  could  turn  out  prettily 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  3C 

enougli,  and  you  could  work  samplers,  and  urn-rugs,  and 
doyleys,  and  pin-cushious,  and  so  forth ;  and  what  with  a 
rood  or  two  of  garden  ground,  and  poultry  (the  Mayor 
says  poultry  is  healthy  for  children),  upon  my  word,  if  we 
could  find  a  safe  place,  and  people  would  not  trouble  us 
with  their  gossip  —  and  we  could  save  a  little  money  for 
you  when  I  am  — " 

"Bees  too  —  honey?"  interrupted  Sophy,  growing 
more  and  more  interested  and  excited. 

"  Yes,  bees  —  certainly.  A  cottage  of  that  kind  in  a 
village  would  not  be  above  £6  a  year,  and  £20  spent  on 
materials  for  fancy-works  would  set  us  up.  Ah  I  but 
furniture — beds  and  tables  —  monstrous  dear." 

"  Oh  no,  very  little  would  do  at  first." 

"  Let  us  count  the  money  we  have  left,"  said  Waife, 
throwing  himself  down  on  a  piece  of  sward  that  encircled 
a  shady  mulberry  tree.  Old  man  and  child  counted  the 
money,  bit  by  bit,  gayly  yet  anxiously  —  babbling,  inter- 
rupting each  other  —  scheme  upon  scheme ;  they  forgot 
past  and  present  as  much  as  in  acting  plays  —  they  were 
absorbed  in  the  future— innocent  simple  future — innocent 
as  the  future  planned  by  two  infants  fresh  from  Robinson 
Crusoe  or  fairy  tales. 

"I  remember  —  I  remember;  just  the  place  for  us" 
cried  Waife,  suddenly.  "  It  is  many,  many,  many  years 
since  I  was  there  ;  I  was  courting  my  Lizzy  at  the  time 
-^  alas  —  alas  !  But  no  sad  thoughts  now  !  — just  the 
place,  near  a  large  town,  but  in  a  pretty  village  quite  re- 
tired from  it.    'Twas  there  I  learned  to  make  baskets.     I 

1.  — 31 


S62  WHAT     WILL     HE     DO     WITH    IT? 

had  broken  my  leg  —  fall  from  a  horse  —  nothing  to  do. 
I  lodged  with  an  old  basket-maker ;  he  had  a  capital 
trade.  Rivulet  at  the  back  of  his  house  ;  reeds,  osiers, 
plentiful.  I  see  them  now,  as  I  saw  them  from  my  little 
casement  while  my  leg  was  setting.  And  Lizzy  used  to 
write  to  me  for  such  dear  letters  ;  my  baskets  were  all  for 
her.  We  had  baskets  enough  to  have  furnished  a  house 
with  baskets  ;  could  have  dined  in  baskets,  sat  in  baskets, 
slept  in  baskets.  With  a  few  lessons  I  could  soon  recover 
the  knack  of  the  work.  I  should  like  to  see  the  place 
again  ;  it  would  be  shaking  hands  with  my  youth  once 
more.  None  who  could  possibly  recognise  me  could  be 
now  living.  Saw  no  one  but  the  surgeon,  the  basket- 
maker,  and  his  wife  ;  all  so  old,  they  must  be  long  since 
gathered  to  their  fathers.  Perhaps  no  one  carries  on  the 
basket  trade  now.  I  may  revive  it  and  have  it  all  to  my- 
self; perhaps  the  cottage  itself  may  be  easily  hired." 
Thus,  ever  disposed  to  be  sanguine,  the  vagabond  chat- 
tered on,  Sophy  listening  fondly,  and  smiling  up  to  his 
face.  "And  a  fine  large  park  close  by  ;  the  owners  great 
lords,  deserted  it  then  ;  perhaps  it  is  deserted  still.  You 
might  wander  over  it  as  if  it  were  your  own,  Sophy.  Such 
wonderful  trees  —  such  green  solitudes  ;  and  pretty  shy 
hares  running  across  the  vistas  —  stately  deer  too  !  We 
will  make  friends  with  the  lodge-keepers,  and  we  will  call 
the  park  yours,  Sophy ;  and  I  shall  be  a  genius  who 
weaves  magical  baskets,  and  you  shall  be  the  enchanted 
princess  concealed  from  all  evil  eyes,  knitting  doyleys  of 
pearl  under  leaves  of  emerald,  and  catching  no  sound  from 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  303 

the  world  of  perishable  life,  except  as  the  boughs  whispei 
and  the  birds  sing." 

"  Dear  me,  here  you  are  —  we  thought  you  were  lost," 
said  the  bailiflfs  wife  ;  "  tea  is  waiting  for  you,  and  there's 
husband.  Sir,  coming  up  from  his  work ;  he'll  be  proud 
and  glad  to  know  you,  Sir,  and  you  too,  my  dear ;  -ve 
have  no  children  of  our  own." 

It  is  past  eleven.  Sophy,  worn  out,  but  with  emotions 
far  more  pleasurable  than  she  had  long  known,  is  fast 
asleep.  Waife  kneels  by  her  side,  looking  at  her.  He 
touches  her  hand,  so  cool  and  soft  —  all  fever  gone;  he 
rises  on  tiptoe  —  he  bends  over  her  forehead  —  a  kiss 
there,  and  a  tear ;  he  steals  away,  down,  down  the  stairs. 
At  the  porch  is  the  bailiff,  holding  Sir  Isaac. 

"  We'll  take  all  care  of  her,"  said  Mr.  Gooch.  "  You'll 
not  know  her  again  when  you  come  back." 

Waife  pressed  the  hand  of  his  grandchild's  host,  but 
did  not  speak. 

"You  are  sure  you  will  find  your  way  —  no,  that's  the 
wrong  turn  —  straight  on  to  the  town.  They'll  be  sitting 
up  for  you  at  the  Saracen's  Head,  I  suppose  ;  of  course, 
Sir^  It  seems  not  hospitable  like,  your  going  away  at 
the  dead  of  night  thus.  But  I  understand  you  don't  like 
crying,  Sir  —  we  men  don't ;  and  your  sweet  little  girl,  I 
dare  say,  would  sob,  ready  to  break  her  heart,  if  she 
knew.  Fine  moonlight  night,  Sir  —  straight  on.  And 
I  say,  don't  fret  about  her;  wife  loves  children  dearly — . 
so  do  I.     Good-night." 

On  went  Waife —^  lamely,  slowly — Sir  Isaac's  white 


&f4  WHAT    WILL    HE    TO    Wxxli    iT? 

coat  gleaming  in  the  moon,  ghost-like.  On  he  went, 
bundle  strapped  across  his  shoulder,  leaning  on  his  stafif, 
along  by  the  folded  sheep  and  the  sleeping  cattle.  But 
when  he  got  into  the  high  road,  Gatesboro'  full  before 
him,  with  all  its  roofs  and  spires,  he  turned  his  back  on 
the  town,  and  tramped  once  more  along  the  desert 
thoroughfare  —  more  slowly,  and  more  ;  more  lamely,  and 
more ;  till  several  mile-stones  were  passed ;  and  then  he 
crept  through  the  gap  of  a  hedgerow,  to  the  sheltering 
eaves  of  a  hay-stack ;  and  under  that  roof-tree  he  and 
Sir  Isaac  lay  down  to  rest. 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

Laugh  at  forebodings  of  evil,  but  tremble  after  day-dreams  of 
happiness, 

Waife  left  behind  him  at  the  cottage  two  letters — one 
intrusted  to  the  bailiff,  with  a  sealed  bag,  for  Mr.  Har- 
topp  — ■  one  for  Sophy,  placed  on  a  chair  beside  her  bed. 

The  first  letter  was  as  follows : 

"  I  trust,  dear  and  honored  Sir,  that  I  shall  come  back 
safely ;  and  when  I  do,  I  may  have  found,  perhaps,  a 
home  for  her,  and  some  way  of  life  such  as  you  would 
not  blame.  But,  in  case  of  accident,  I  have  left  with 
Mr.  Gooch,  sealed  up,  the  money  we  made  at  Gatesboro*, 
after  paying  the  inn  bill,  doctor,  etc.,  and  retaining  the 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  365 

mere  trifle  I  need  in  case  I  and  Sir  Isaac  fail  to  suppon 
ourselves.  You  will  kindly  take  care  of  it.  I  should 
not  feel  safe  with  more  money  about  me,  an  old  man.  I 
might  be  robbed  ;  besides,  1  am  careless.  I  never  can 
keep  money  ;  it  slips  out  of  my  hands  like  an  eel.  Hea- 
ven bless  you,  Sir ;  your  kindness  seems  like  a  miracle 
vouchsafed  to  me  for  that  child's  dear  sake.  No  evil  can 
chance  to  her  with  you ;  and  if  I  should  fall  ill  and  die, 
even  then  you,  who  would  have  aided  the  tricksome  va- 
grant, will  not  grudge  the  saving  hand  to  the  harmless 
child." 

The  letter  to  Sophy  ran  thus : 

"Darling,  forgive  me;  I  have  stolen  away  from  you, 
but  only  for  a  few  days,  and  only  in  order  to  see  if  we 
cannot  gain  the  magic  home  where  I  am  to  be  the 
Genius,  and  you  the  Princess.  I  go  forth  with  such  a 
light  heart,  Sophy  dear.  I  shall  be  walking  thirty  mileg 
a  day,  and  not  feel  an  ache  in  the  lame  leg ;  you  could 
not  keep  up  with  me — you  know  you  could  not.  So 
think  over  the  cottage  ^nd  the  basket-work,  and  practice 
at. samplers  and  pin-cushions  when  it  is  too  hot  to  play ; 
and  be  stout  and  strong  against  I  come  back.  That,  I 
trust,  will  be  this  day  week  —  'tis  but  seven  days ;  and 
then  we  will  only  act  fairy  dramas  to  nodding  trees,  with 
linnets  for  the  orchestra ;  and  even  Sir  Isaac  shall  not  be 
demeaned  by  mercenary  tricks,  but  shall  employ  his 
arithmetical  talents  in  casting  up  the  weekly  bills,  and  he 
shall  never  stand  on  his  hind  legs  except  on  sunnv  days, 
31* 


866  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

when  he  shall  carry  a  parasol  to  shade  an  enchanted 
princess.  Laugh,  darling — let  me  fancy  I  see  you  laugh- 
ing ;  but  don't  fret  —  don't  fancy  I  desert  you.  Do  try 
and  get  well  —  quite,  quite  well ;  I  ask  it  of  you  on  my 
knees." 

The  letter  and  the  bag  were  taken  over,  at  sunrise,  to 
Mr.  Hartopp's  villa.  Mr.  Hartopp  was  an  early  man. 
Sophy  overslept  herself ;  her  room  was  to  the  west ;  the 
morning  beams  did  not  reach  its  windows ;  and  the  cot- 
tage without  children  woke  up  to  labor,  noiseless  and 
still.  So  when  at  last  she  shook  of  sleep,  and,  tossing 
her  hair  from  her  blue  eyes,  looked  round  and  became 
conscious  of  the  strange  place,  she  still  fancied  the  hour 
early.  But  she  got  up,  drew  the  curtain  from  the  win- 
dow^, saw  the  sun  high  in  the  heavens,  and,  ashamed  of 
her  laziness,  turned,  and  lo  !  the  letter  on  the  chair  !  Her 
heart  at  once  misgave  her ;  the  truth  flashed  upon  a 
reason  prematurely  quick  in  the  intuition  which  belongs 
to  the  union  of  sensitive  affection  and  active  thought. 
She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  turned  deadly  pale.  It  was 
some  minutes  before  she  could  take  up  the  letter,  before 
she  could  break  the  seal.  When  she  did,  she  read  on 
noiselessly,  her  tears  dropping  over  the  page,  without 
effort  or  sob.  She  had  no  egotistical  sorrow,  no  grief  in 
being  left  alone  with  strangers  ;  it  was  the  pathos  of  the 
old  man's  lonely  w^anderings,  of  his  bereavement,  of  his 
counterfeit  glee,  and  genuine  self-sacrifice  —  this  it  was 
that  suffused  her  whole  heart  with  unutterable  yearnings 
of  tenderness,  gratitude,  pity,  veneration.     But  when  she 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  361 

had  wept  sileutly  for  some  time,  she  kissed  the  letter  with 
devout  passion,  and  turned  to  that  Heaven  to  which  the. 
outcast  had  taught  her  first  to  pray. 

Afterward  she  stood  still,  musing  a  little  while,  and  the 
sorrowful  shade  gradually  left  lier  face.  Yes  ;  she  would 
obey  him  —  she  would  not  fret  —  she  would  try  and  get 
well  and  strong.  He  would  feel,  at  the  distance,  that 
Ehe  was  true  to  his  wishes  —  that  she  was  fitting  herself 
to  be  again  his  companion ;  seven  days  would  soon  pass. 
Hope,  that  can  never  long  quit  the  heart  of  childhood, 
brightened  over  her  meditations,  as  the  morning  sun  over 
a  landscape  that,  just  before,  had  lain  sad  amidst  twilight 
and  under  rains. 

When  she  came  down  stairs  Mrs.  Gooch  was  pleased 
and  surprised  to  observe  the  placid  smile  upon  her  face, 
and  the  quiet  activity  with  which,  after  the  morning  meal, 
she  moved  about  by  the  good  woman's  side,  assisting  her 
in  her  dairy-work  and  other  housewife  tasks,  talking  little, 
comprehending  quickly  —  composed,  cheerful. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  don't  pine  after  your  good 
grandpapa,  as  we  feared  you  would." 

"He  told  me  not  to  pine,"  answered  Sophy,  simply, 
but  with  a  quivering  lip. 

When  the  noon  deepened,  and  it  became  too  warm  for 
exercise,  Sophy  timidly  asked  if  Mrs.  Gooch  had  any 
worsteds  and  knitting-needles,  and  being  accommodated 
with  those  implements  and  materials,  she  withdrew  to  tht 
arbor,  and  seated  herself  to  work  —  solitary  and  tranquil 


368  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

What  made,  perhaps,  the  chief  strength  in  this  poor 
child's  nature,  was  its  intense  trustfulness  —  a  part,  per- 
haps,  of  its  instinctive  appreciation  of  truth.  She  trusted 
in  Waife  —  in  the  Future  —  in  Providence  —  in  her  own 
childish,  not  helpless,  self.  Already,  as  her  slight  fingers 
sorted  the  worsteds,  and  her  graceful  taste  shaded  their 
hues  into  blended  harmony,  her  mind  was  weaving,  not 
less  harmoniously,  the  hues  in  the  woof  of  dreams,  the 
cottage  home  —  the  harmless  tasks — Waife,  with  his  pipe, 
in  the  arm-chair,  under  some  porch,  covered,  like  that  one 
yonder  —  why  not  ?  —  with  fragrant  woodbine.  And  life, 
if  humble,  honest,  truthful,  not  shrinking  from  tk«  day,  so 
that,  if  Lionel  met  her  again,  she  should  not  blush,  nor 
he  be  shocked.  And  if  their  ways  were  so  different  as  her 
grandfather  said,  still  they  might  cross,  as  they  had  cross- 
ed before,  and  —  the  work  slid  from  her  hand,  the  sweet 
lips  parted,  smiling;  a  picture  came  before  her  eyes — • 
her  grandfather,  Lionel,  herself;  all  three,  friends,  and 
happy  ;  a  stream,  fair  as  the  Thames  had  seemed  —  green 
trees  all  bathed  in  summer  —  the  boat  gliding  by  ;  in  that 
boat  they  three,  borne  softly  on  —  away  —  away  —  what 
matters  whither  ?  by  her  side  the  old  man  ;  facing  her,  the 
boy's  bright,  kind  eyes.      She  started.     She  heard  noises 

—  a  swinging  gate  —  footsteps.     She  started  —  she  rose 

—  voices;  one  strange  to  her,  a  man's  voice,  then  the 
Mayor's.  A  third  voice,  shrill,  stern  ;  a  terrible  voice  — 
heard  in  infancy  —  associated  with  images  of  cruelty, 
misery,  woe.     It  could  not  be! — impossible!     iJ^ear  — 


WHAT    WILL     HE     DO     WITH    IT?  36& 

nearer  came  the  footsteps.  Seized  with  the  impulse  ot 
flight,  she  sprang  to  the  mouth  of  the  arbor.  Fronting 
her  glared  two  dark,  baleful  eyes.  She  stood  —  arrested 
—  spellbound  —  as  a  bird  fixed  rigid  by  the  gaze  of  a  ser- 
pent. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Muyor  ;  all  right  1  it  is  our  little  girl  —  our 
dear  Sophy.  This  way,  Mr.  Losely.  Such  a  pleasant 
surprise  for  you,  Sopby,  my  love  I"  said  Mrs.  Crane. 


BOOK    FOURTH. 


CHAPTER  1. 

In  the  kindliest  natures  there  is  a  certain  sensitiveness,  which,  -when 
•wounded,  occasions  the  same  pain,  and  bequeathes  the  same  re- 
sentment,  as  mortified  vanity  or  galled  self-love. 

It  is  exactly  that  day  week,  toward  the  hour  of  five  in 
the  evening ;  Mr.  Hartopp,  alone  in  the  parlor  behind  his 
warehouse,  is  locking  up  his  books  and  ledgers  prepara- 
tory to  the  return  to  his  villa.  There  is  a  certain  change 
in  the  expression  of  his  countenance  since  we  saw  it  last. 
If  it  be  possible  for  Mr.  Hartopp  to  look  sullen  —  sullen 
he  looks ;  if  it  be  possible  for  the  mayor  of  Gatesboro'  to 
be  crest-fallen  —  crestfallen  he  is.  That  smooth  existence 
has  surely  received  some  fatal  concussion,  and  has  not  yet 
recovered  the  shock.  But,  if  you  will  glance  beyond  the 
parlor  at  Mr.  Williams  giving  orders  in  the  warehouse, 
at  the  warehousemen  themselves,  at  the  rough  faces  in  the 
tan-yard  —  nay,  at  Mike  Callaghan,  who  has  just  brought 
a  parcel  from  the  railway,  all  of  them  have  evidently  shared 
in  the  effects  of  the  concussion  ;  all  of  them  wear  a  look 
more  or  less  sullen  ;  all  seem  crest-fallen.  Nay,  could  you 
carry  your  gaze  farther   on  —  could  you  peep  into  the 

(370) 


WHAT     WILL     HE    DO     WITH    IT?  371 

shops  in  the  High  Street,  or  at  the  loungers  in  the  city 
reading-room  ;  could  jou  extend  the  vision  farther  still  — 
to  Mr.  Ilartopp's  villa,  behold  his  wife,  his  little  ones,  hib 
men-servants,  and  his  maid-servants  —  more  and  more  im- 
pressively general  would  become  the  tokens  of  disturbance 
occasioned  by  that  infamous  concussion.  Every  where  a 
sullen  look  —  every  where  that  ineffable  aspect  of  crest- 
fallenness  I  "What  can  have  happened  ?  is  the  good  man 
bankrupt  ?  No  —  rich  as  ever  I  What  can  it  be  ?  Reader, 
that  fatal  event  which  they  who  love  Josiah  Hartopp  are 
ever  at  watch  to  prevent,  despite  all  their  vigilance,  has 
occurred  I  Josiah  Hartopp  has  been  taken  in  !  Other 
men  may  be  occasionally  taken  in,  and  no  one  mourns  — 
perhaps  they  deserve  it  1  they  are  not  especially  benevo- 
lent, or  they  set  up  to  be  specially  wise.  But  to  take  in 
that  Lamb  !  And  it  was  not  only  the  Mayor's  heart  that 
was  wounded,  but  his  pride,  his  self-esteem,  his  sense  of 
dignity,  were  terribly  humiliated.  For  as  we  know,  though 
all  the  world  considered  Mr.  Hartopp  the  very  man  born 
to  be  taken  in,  and  therefore  combined  to  protect  him, 
yet  in  his  secret  soul  Mr.  Hartopp  considered  that  no  man 
less  needed  such  protection  ;  that  he  was  never  taken  in, 
unless  he  meant  to  be  so.  Tims  the  cruelty  and  ingrati- 
tude of  the  Ijase  action  under  which  his  crest  was  so  fallen^ 
jarred  on  his  whole  system.  Nay,  more,  he  could  not  but 
*"eel  that  the  event  would  long  affect  his  personal  comfort 
and  independence  ;  he  would  be  more  than  ever  under  the 
affectionate  tyranny  of  Mr.  Williams  —  more  than  ever  be 
ui  object  of  universal  surveillance  and  espionage.    There 


372  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

would  be  one  thought  paramount  throughout  Gatesboro'. 
"  The  Mayor,  God  bless  him!  has  been  taken  in — this 
must  not  occur  again  I  or  Gatesboro'  is  dishonored,  and 
Yirtue  indeed  a  name  !  "  Mr.  Hartopp  felt  not  only  mor- 
tified but  subjugated  — he  who  had  hitherto  been  the  «=oft 
subjugator  of  the  hardest.  He  felt  not  only  subjugated, 
but  indignant  at  the  consciousness  of  being  so.  He  was 
too  meekly  convinced  of  Heaven's  unerring  justice  not  to 
feel  assured  that  the  man  who  had  taken  him  in  would 
come  to  a  tragic  end.  He  would  not  have  hanged  that 
man  with  his  own  hands  —he  was  too  mild  for  vengeance. 
But  if  he  had  seen  that  man  hanging,  he  would  have  said, 
piously,  "Fitting  retribution  I "  and  passed  on  his  way 
soothed  and  comforted.  Taken  in  I  —  taken  in  at  last !  — 
he  Josiah  Hartopp,  taken  in  by  a  fellow  with  one  eye  I 


CHAPTER    II. 

The  Mayor  is  so  protected  that  he  can  not  help  himself. 

A  COMMOTION  without — a  kind  of  howl  —  %  kind  of 
hoot.  Mr.  Williams  —  the  warehouse-men,  the  tanners, 
Mike  Callaghan,  share  between  them  the  howl  and  the 
hoot.  The  Mayor  started  —  is  it  possible  !  His  door  is 
burst  open,  and,  scattering  all  who  sought  to  hold  him 
back  —  scattering  them  to  the  right  and  left  from  his  mas- 
sive torso,  in  rushed  the  man  who  had  taken  in  the  Mayor 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  313 

. —  the  fellow  with  one  eye,  and  with  that  fellow,  shaggy 
and  travel-soiled,  the  other  dog  ! 

"What  have  you  done  with  the  charge  I  intrusted  to 
you  ?     My  child  —  my  child  —  where  is  she  ?  " 

Waife's  face  was  wild  with  the  agony  of  his  emotions, 
and  his  voice  was  so  sharply  terrible  that  it  went  like  a 
knife  into  the  heart  of  the  men,  who,  thrust  aside  for  the 
moment,  now  followed  him,  fearful,  into  the  room. 

"Mr.  — Mr.  Chapman,  Sir,"  faltered  the  Mayor,  striv- 
ing hard  to  recover  dignity  and  self-possession,  "  I  am 
astonished  at  your  —  your — " 

"  Audacity  ! "  interposed  Mr.  Williams. 

"  My  child  —  my  Sophy — my  child  I  answer  me,  man  I  '* 

"  Sir,"  said  the  Mayor,  drawing  himself  up,  "have  you 
not  got  the  note  which  I  left  at  my  bailiff's  cottage  in 
case  you  called  there  ?  " 

"Your  note  —  this  thing!"  said  Waife,  striking  a 
crumpled  paper  with  his  hand,  and  running  his  eye  over 
its  contents.  "You  have  rendered  up,  you  say,  the  child 
to  her  lawful  protector  ?  Gracious  Heavens  !  did  I  trust 
her  to  you  or  not?" 

"Leave  the  room  all  of  you,"  said  the  Mayor,  with  a 
sadden  return  of  his  usual  calm  vigor. 

"You  go  —  you.  Sirs;  what  the  deuce  do  you  do 
nere  ?"  growled  Williams  to  the  meaner  throng.  "  Out  I 
—  I  stay ;  never  fear,  men,  I'll  take  care  of  him  1 " 

The  by-standers  surlily  slinked  off,  but  none  returned 
fo  their  work  ;  they  stood  within  reach  of  call  by  the  shut 
door.     Williams  tucked  up  his  coat-sleeves,  clenched  his 

I. —  32 


3t*  WHAT    "WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

fists,  hung  his  head  doggedly  on  one  side,  and  looked 
altogether  so  pugnacious  and  minatory,  that  Sir  Isaac, 
who,  though  in  a  state  of  great  excitement,  had  hitherto 
retained  self-control,  peered  at  him  under  his  curls,  stif- 
fened his  back,  showed  his  teeth,  and  growled  formidably. 

"My  good  Williams,  leave  us,"  said  the  Mayor;  "  [ 
would  be  alone  with  this  person." 

"Alone  —  you  I  out  of  the  question.  Now  you  have 
been  once  taken  in,  and  you  own  it  —  it  is  my  duty  to 
protect  you  henceforth  ;  and  I  will  to  the  end  of  my  days." 

The  Mayor  sighed  heavily — "Well,  Williams,  well  I  — 
take  a  chair,  and  be  quiet.  Now,  Mr.  Chapman,  so  to 
call  you  still;  you  have  deceived  me." 

"I  — how?" 

The  Mayor  was  puzzled.  "  Deceived  me,"  he  said  at 
last,  "in  my  knowledge  of  human  nature.  I  thought  you 
an  honest  man,  Sir.     And  you  are  —  but  no  matter." 

Waife  (impatiently).  "  My  child,  my  child  I  you  have 
given  her  up  —  to  —  to — " 

Mayor.   "  Her  own  father.  Sir." 

Waife  (echoing  the  words  as  he  staggers  back).  "  I 
thought  so  —  I  thought  it !  "  » 

Mayor.  "  In  so  doing  I  obeyed  the  law  —  he  had  legal 
power  to  enforce  his  demand."  The  Mayor's  voice  was 
almost  apologetic  in  its  tone,  for  he  was  affected  by 
Waife's  anguish,  and  not  able  to  silence  a  pang  of  re- 
morse. After  all,  he  had  been  trusted ;  and  he  had,  ex- 
cusably perhaps,  necessarily  perhaps,  but  still  he  had 
failed  to  fulfill  the  trust.     "But,"  added  the  Mavor,  as 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  ST5 

if  reassuriug  himself —  "  But  I  refused  at  first  to  give  her 
up,  eveu  to  her  owu  father ;  at  first  insisted  upon  waiting 
till  your  return  ;  and  it  was  only  when  I  was  informed 
what  you  yourself  were  that  my  scruples  gave  way." 

Waife  remained  long  silent,  breathing  very  hard,  and 
passing  his  hand  several  times  over  his  forehead  ;  at  last 
he  said  more  quietly  than  he  had  yet  spoken,  "  Will  you 
tell  me  where  they  have  gone  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  and  if  I  did  know  I  would  not  tell 
you  !  Are  they  not  right  when  they  say  that  that  innocent 
child  should  not  be  tempted  away  by — by — a  —  in  short, 
by  you,  Sir  ?  " 

"  They  said  I  Her  father  —  said  that  I  —  he  said  that  1 
Did  he — did  he  say  it?  Had  he  the  heart?" 

Mayor  "  No,  I  don't  think  he  said  it.  Eh,  Mr.  Wil- 
liams ?     He  spoke  little  to  me  ! " 

Mr.  Williams.  "  Of  course  he  would  not  expose  that 
person.     But  the  woman  —  the  lady,  I  mean." 

Waife.  "  Woman  I  Ah,  yes.  The  bailiff's  wife  said 
there  was  a  woman.    What  woman  ?  What's  her  name  ?" 

Mayor.  "  Really  you  must  excuse  me.  I  can  say  no 
more.  I  ha^^e  consented  to  see  you  thus,  because  what- 
ever you  might  have  been,  or  may  be,  still  it  was  due  to 
myself  to  explain  how  I  came  to  give  up  the  child  ;  and, 
besides,  you  left  money  with  me,  and  that,  at  least,  I  can 
give  to  your  own  hand." 

The  Mayor  turned  to  his  desk,  unlocked  it,  and  drew 
forth  the  bag  which  Waife  had  sent  to  him. 

As  he   extended   it  toward   the  Comedian,  his   hand 


376  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

trembled  and  his  cheek  flushed.  For  Waife's  one  bright 
eye  had  in  it  such  depths  of  reproach,  that  again  the 
Mayor's  conscience  was  sorely  troubled,  and  he  would 
have  given  ten  times  the  contents  of  that  bag  to  have 
been  alone  with  the  vagrant,  and  to  have  said  the  sooth- 
ing things  he  did  not  dare  to  say  before  Williams,  who 
sate  there  mute  and  grim,  guarding  him  from  being  once 

more  "taken  in."     "If  you  had  confided  in  me  at  first, 

« 
Mr.  Chapman,"  he  said,  pathetically,  "  or  even  if  now,  I 

could  aid  you  in  an  honest  way  of  life  ! " 

"Aid  him  —  now  !  "  said  Williams,  with  a  snort.     "At 

it  again  !  you're  not  a  man,  you're  an  angel  1 " 

"  But  if  he  is  penitent,  Williams." 

"  So  I  so  !  so  1  "  murmured  Waife.     "  Thank  Heaven  it 

was  not  he  who  spoke  against  me  —  it  was  but  a  strange 

woman.    Oh  1  "  he  suddenly  broke  off  with  a  groan.    "  Oh 

—  but  that  strange  woman  —  who,  what  can  she  be  ?  and 

Sophy  with  her  and  him.     Distraction  !    Yes,  yes,  I  take 

the  money.     I  shall  want  it  all.     Sir  Isaac,  pick  up  that 

bag.     Gentlemen,  good-day  to  you  I "     He  bowed  ;  such 

a  failure  that  bow  1     Nothing  ducal  in  it  I    bowed  and 

turned   toward    the    door ;    then,    when   he    gained   the 

threshold,  as  if  some  meeker,  holier  thought  restored  to 

him  dignity  of  bearing,  his  form  rose,  though  his  face 

softened,  and  stretching  his  right  hand  toward  the  Mayor, 

he  said  :  "  You  did  but  as  all  perhaps  would  have  done 

on  the  evidence  before  you.     You  meant  to  be  kind  to 

her.     If  you  knew  all,  how  you  .would  repent  I     I  do  not 

Dlame  —  I  forgive  you" 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  311 

He  was  gone ;  the  Mayor  stood  transfixed.  Even 
Williams  felt  a  cold,  comfortless  chill.  "He  does  no; 
look  like  it,"  said  the  foreman.  "  Cheer  up,  Sir,  no 
wonder  you  were  taken  in — who  would  not  have  been  ?  " 

"  Hark  !  that  hoot  again.  Go,  Williams,  don't  let  the 
men  insult  him.     Do,  do.     I  shall  be  grateful." 

But  before  Williams  got  to  the  door,  the  cripple  and 
his  dog  had  vanished;  vanished  down  a  dark  narrow 
alley  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  The  rude  work- 
men had  followed  him  to  the  mouth  of  the  alley,  mocking 
him.  Of  the  exact  charge  against  the  Comedian's  good 
name  they  were  not  informed  :  that  knowledge  was  con- 
fined to  the  Mayor  and  Mr.  Williams.  But  the  latter 
had  dropped  such  harsh  expressions,  that,  bad  as  the 
charge  might  really  be,  all  in  Mr.  Hartopp's  employment 
probably  deemed  it  worse,  if  possible,  than  it  really  was. 
And  wretch  indeed  must  be  the  man  by  whom  the  Mayor 
had  been  confessedly  taken  in,  and  whom  the  Mayor  had 
indignantly  given  up  to  the  reproaches  of  his  own  con- 
science. But  the  cripple  was  now  out  of  sight,  lost 
amidst  those  labyrinths  of  squalid  homes  which,  in  great 
towns,  are  thrust  beyond  view,  branching  off  abruptly 
behind  High  Streets  and  Market-places;  so  that  strangers 
passing  only  along  the  broad  thoroughfares,  with  glitter- 
ing shops  and  gas-lit  causeways,  exclaim,  "Where  do  the 
Poor  live  ?" 


32  » 


8T8  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 


CHAPTER   III. 

Ecce  iterum  Crispinus. 

It  was  by  no  calculation,  but  by  involuntary  impulse, 
that  Waife,  thus  escapino;  from  the  harsh  looks  and  taunt- 
ing murmurs  of  the  gossips  round  the  Mayor's  door, 
dived  into  those  sordid  devious  lanes.  Yaguely  he  felt 
that  a  ban  was  upon  him ;  tha.t  the  covering  he  had 
thrown  over  his  brand  of  outcast  was  lifted  up ;  that  a 
sentence  of  expulsion  from  the  High  Streets  and  Market- 
places of  decorous  life  was  passed  against  him.  He  had 
oeen  robbed  of  his  child,  and  Society,  speaking  in  the 
voice  of  the  Mayor  of  Gatesboro',  said,  "  Rightly  I  thou 
art  not  fit  companion  for  the  innocent  I " 

At  length  he  found  himself  out  of  the  town,  beyond  its 
straggling  suburbs,  and  once  more  on  the  solitary  road. 
He  had  already  walked  far  that  day.  He  was  thoroughly 
exhausted.  He  sate  himself  down  in  a  dry  ditch  by  the 
hedgerow,  and  taking  his  head  between  his  hands,  strove 
to  re-collect  his  thoughts,  and  re-arrange  his  plans. 

Waife  had  returned  that  day  to  the  bailifi''s  cottage 
joyous  and  elated.  He  had  spent  the  week  in  travelliug 
—  partly,  though  not  all  the  way  on  foot,  to  the  distant 
village  in  which  he  had  learned  in  youth  the  basket- 
maker's  art !  He  had  found  the  very  cottage  wherein  ho 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  319 

had  then  lodged,  vacant,  and  to  be  let.  There  seemed 
a  ready  opening  for  the  humble  but  pleasant  craft  tc 
which  he  had  diverted  his  ambition 

The  bailiff  intrusted  with  the  letting  of  the  cottage 
and  osier-ground,  had,  it  is  true,  requested  some  reference 
—  not,  of  course,  as  to  all  a  tenant's  antecedents,  but  as 
to  the  reasonable  probability  that  the  tenant  would  be  a 
quiet,  sober  man,  who  would  pay  his  rent,  and  abstain 
from  poaching.  Waife  thought  he  might  safely  presume 
that  the  Mayor  of  Gatesboro'  would  not,  so  far  as  that 
went,  object  to  take  his  past  upon  trust,  and  give  him  a 
good  word  toward  securing  so  harmless  and  obscure  a 
future.  Waife  had  never  asked  such  a  favor  before  of 
any  man ;  he  shrunk  from  doing  so  now ;  but  for  his 
grandchild's  sake  he  would  waive  his  scruples  or  humble 
his  pride. 

Thus,  then,  he  had  come  back,  full  of  Elysian  dreams, 

to  his  Sophy  —  his  Enchanted  Princess.     Gone  —  taken 

way,  and  with  the  Mayor's  consent — the  consent  of  the 

ery  man  upon  whom  he  had  been  relying  to  secure  a 

velihood  and  a  shelter !  Little  more  had  he  learned  at 

vhe  cottage,  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gooch  had  been  cautioned 

to  be  as  brief  as  possible,  and  give  him  no  clew  to  regain 

his  lost  treasure,  beyond  the  note  which  informed  him  it 

was  with  a  lawful  possessor.     And,  indeed,  the  worthy 

pair  were  now  prejudiced  against  the  vagrant,  and  were 

rude  to  him.     But  he  had  not  tarried  to  cross-examine 

and  inquire.     lie   had  rushed   at  once  to  the  Mayor. 

Sophy  was  with  one  whose  legal  right  to  dispose  of  her 


380  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

he  could  not  question.     But  where  that  person  would 
take  her — where  he  resided — what  he  would  do  with  her 
—  he  had  no  means  to  conjecture.     Most  probably  (he 
thought  and  guessed)  she  would  be  carried  abroad — was 
already  out  of  the  country.     But  the  woman  with  Losely, 
he  had  not  heard  her  described  ;  his  guesses  did  not  turn 
toward  Mrs.  Crane ;  the  woman  was  evidently  hostile  to 
him  —  it  was  the  woman  who  had  spoken  against  him  — 
not  Losely  ;  the  woman  whose  tongue  had  poisoned  Har- 
topp's  mind,  and  turned  into  scorn  all  that  admiring  re 
spect  which  had  before   greeted  the  great  Comedian 
Why  was  that  woman  his  enemy  ?  Who  could  she  be  ? 
What  had  she  to  do  with  Sophy  ?  He  was  half  beside 
himself  with  terror.     It  was  to  save  her  less  even  from 
Losely  than  from  such  direful  women  as  Losely  made  his 
confidants  and  associates  that  Waife  had  taken  Sophy  to 
himself.     As  for  Mrs.  Crane,  she  had  never  seemed  a  foe 
to  him — she  had  ceded  the  child  to  him  willingly — he  had 
no  reason  to  believe,  from  the  way  in  which  she  had  spoken 
of  Losely  when  he  last  saw  her,  that  she  could  henceforth 
aid  the  interests,  or  share  the  schemes,  of  the  man  whose 
perfidies  she  then  denounced ;  and  as  to  Kugge,  he  had 
not  appeared  at  Gatesboro'.     Mrs.  Crane  had  prudently 
suggested  that  his  presence  would  not  be  propitiatory  or 
discreet,  and  that  all  reference  to  him,  or  to  the  contract 
with  him,  should  be  suppressed.     Thus  Waife  was  wholly 
without  one  guiding  evidence — one  groundwork  for  con- 
jecture— that  might  enable  him  to  track  the  lost ;  all  he 
knew  was,  that  she  had  been  given  up  to  a  man  whose 


w 


HAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  381 


whereabouts  it  was  difficult  to  discover  —  a  vagrant,  of 
life  darker  and  more  hidden  than  his  own. 

But  how  had  the  hunters  discovered  the  place  where 
he  had  treasured  up  his  Sophy  —  how  dogged  that  re- 
treat ?  Perhaps  from  the  village  in  which  we  first  saw 
him.  Ay,  doubtless,  learned  from  Mrs.  Saunders  of  the 
dog  he  had  purchased,  and  the  dog  would  have  served  to 
direct  them  on  his  path.  At  that  thought  he  pushed 
away  Sir  Isaac,  who  had  been  resting  his  head  on  the  old 
man's  knee  —  pushed  him  away  angrily;  the  poor  dog 
slunk  off  in  sorrowful  surprise,  and  whined. 

"  Ungrateful  wretch  that  I  am,"  cried  Waife,  and  he 
opened  his  arms  to  the  brute,  who  bounded  forgivingly 
to  his  breast ! 

"  Come,  come,  we  will  go  back  to  the  village  in  Sur- 
rey. Tramp,  tramp  !  "  said  the  cripple,  rousing  himself. 
And  at  that  moment,  just  as  he  gained  his  feet,  a  friendly 
hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  friendly  voice  said — 
"  I  have  found  you  I  the  crystal  said  so  !  Marbellous  I " 
"Merle,"  faltered  out  the  vagrant  —  "Merle,  you 
here  I  Oh,  perhaps  you  come  to  tell  me  good  news : 
you  have  seen  Sophy  ■ —  you  know  where  she  is  !  " 

The  Cobbler  shook  his  head.  "  Can't  see  her  just  at 
present.  Crystal  says  nout  about  her.  But  I  know  she 
was  taken  from  you  —  and  —  and  —  you  shake  tremen- 
jous  I  Lean  on  me,  Mr.  Waife,  and  call  off  that  big 
animal.  He's  a  suspicating  my  calves,  and  circumtitty- 
vating  them.  Thank  ye,  Sir.  You  see  I  was  born  with 
sinister  aspects  in  my  Twelfth  House,  which  appertains 


382  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

to  big  animals  and  enemies  ;  and  dogs  of  that  size  about 
one's  calves  are  —  raalefics  ! " 

As  Merle  now  slowly  led  the  cripple,  and  Sir  Isaac, 
relinquishing  his  first  suspicions,  walked  droopingly  be- 
side them,  the  Cobbler  began  a  long  story,  much  encum- 
bered by  astrological  illustrations  and  moralizing  com- 
ments. The  substance  of  his  narrative,  is  thus  epitomized  : 
Rugge,  in  pursuing  Waife's  track,  had  naturally  called 
on  Merle  in  company  with  Losely  and  Mrs.  Crane.  The 
Cobbler  had  no  clue  to  give,  and  no  mind  to  give  it  if 
clew  he  had  possessed.  But  his  curiosity  being  roused, 
he  had  smothered  the  inclination  to  dismiss  the  inquirers 
with  more  speed  than  good-breeding,  and  even  refreshed 
his  slight  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Rugge  in  so  well  stimu- 
lated a  courtesy,  that  that  gentleman,  when  left  behind 
by  Losely  and  Mrs.  Crane  in  their  journey  to  Gatesboro', 
condescended,  for  want  of  other  company,  to  drink  tea 
with  Mr.  Merle ;  and  tea  being  succeeded  by  stronger 
potations,  he  fairly  unbosomed  himself  of  his  hopes  of 
recovering  Sophy,  and  his  ambition  of  hiring  the  York 
theater. 

The  day  afterward,  Rugge  went  away  seemingly  in 
high  spirits,  and  the  Cobbler  had  no  doubt,  from  some 
words  he  let  fall  in  passing  Merle's  stall  toward  the  rail- 
way, that  Sophy  was  recaptured,  and  that  Rugge  was 
summoned  to  take  possession  of  her.  Ascertaining  from 
the  manager  that  Losely  and  Mrs.  Crane  had  gone  to 
Gatesboro',  the  Cobbler  called  to  mind  that  he  had  a 
sister  living  there,  married  to  a  green-grocer  in  a  very 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  383 

fimall  way,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  many  years ;  and 
finding  his  business  slack  just  tlien,  he  resolved  to  pay 
this  relative  a  visit,  with  the  benevolent  intention  of 
looking  up  Waife,  whom  he  expected,  from  Rugge's  ac- 
count, to  find  there,  and  offering  him  any  consolation  or 
aid  in  his  power,  should  Sophy  have  been  taken  from  him 
against  his  will.  A  consultation  with  his  crystal,  which 
showed  him  the  face  of  Mr.  Waife  alone,  and  much  de- 
jected, and  a  horary  scheme  which  promised  success  to 
his  journey,  decided  his  movements.  He  had  arrived  at 
Gatesboro'  the  day  before,  had  heard  a  confused  story 
about  a  Mr.  Chapman,  with  his  dog  and  his  child,  whom 
the  Mayor  had  first  taken  up,  but  who  afterward,  in  some 
mysterious  manner,  had  taken  in  the  Mayor.  Happily, 
the  darker  gossip  in  the  High  Street  had  not  penetrated 
the  back  lane  in  which  Merle's  sister  resided.  There 
little  more  was  known  than  the  fact  that  this  mysterious 
stranger  had  imposed  on  the  wisdom  of  Gatesboro's 
learned  Institute  and  enlightened  Mayor.  Merle,  at  no 
loss  to  indentify  Waife  with  Chapman,  could  only  sup- 
pose that  he  had  been  discovered  to  be  a  strolling  player 
in  Rugge's  exhibition,  after  pretending  to  be  some  much 
greater  man.  Such  an  offense  the  Cobbler  was  not  dis- 
posed to  consider  heinous.  But  Mr.  Chapman  was  gone 
from  Gatesboro,'  none  knew  whither ;  and  Merle  had  not 
yet  ventured  to  call  himself  on  the  chief  magistrate  of  the 
place,  to  inquire  after  a  man  by  whom  that  august  per- 
sonage had  been  deceived.  "  Howsomever,"  quoth 
Merle,  in  conclusion.  "  I  was  just  standing  at  my  sister's 


384  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

door,  with  her  last  baby  in  my  arms,  in  Scrob  Lane,  when 
I  saw  you  pass  by  like  a  shot.  You  were  gone  while  I 
ran  in  to  give  up  the  baby,  who  is  teething,  with  malefics 
in  square  —  gone  —  clean  out  of  sight.  You  took  one 
turn,  I  took  another ;  but  you  see  we  meet  at  last,  as 
good  men  always  do  in  this  world  —  or  the  other,  which 
is  the  same  thing  in  the  long-run." 

Waife,  who  had  listened  to  his  friend  without  other 
interruption  than  an  occasional  nod  of  the  head  or  inter- 
jectional  expletive,  was  now  restored  to  much  of  his 
constitutional  mood  of  sanguine  cheerfulness.  He  recog- 
nized Mrs.  Crane  in  the  woman  described,  and  if  sur- 
prised, he  was  rejoiced.  For  much  as  he  disliked  that 
gentlewoman,  he  thought  Sophy  might  be  in  worse  female 
hands.  Without  much  need  of  sagacity,  he  divined  the 
gist  of  the  truth.  Losely  had  somehow  or  other  become 
acquainted  with  Rugge,  and  sold  Sophy  to  the  manager. 
Where  Rugge  was,  there  w^ould  Sophy  be.  It  could  not 
be  very  difficult  to  find  out  the  place  in  which  Rugge  w^as 
now  exhibiting;  and  then  —  ah  then!  Waife  whistled 
to  Sir  Isaac,  tapped  his  forehead,  and  smiled  triumphantly. 
Meanwhile  the  Cobler  had  led  him  back  into  the  suburb, 
with  the  kind  intention  of  offering  him  food  and  bed  for 
the  night  at  his  sister's  house.  But  Waife  had  already 
formed  his  plan  ;  in  London,  and  in  London  alone,  could 
he  be  sure  to  learn  where  Rugge  was  now  exhibiting ;  in 
London  there  were  places  at  which  that  information  could 
be  gleaned  at  once.  The  last  train  to  the  metropolis  was 
not  gone.     He  w^ould  slink  round  the  town  to  the  sta- 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  385 

tioc  :  he  and  Sir  Isaac  at  that  hour  might  secure  places 
nimoticed. 

When  Merle  found  it  was  in  vain  to  press  him  to  stay 
oyer  the  night,  the  good-hearted  Cobbler  accompanied 
him  to  the  train,  and,  while  Waife  shrunk  him  into  a  dark 
corner,  bought  the  tickets  for  dog  and  master.  As  he 
was  paying  for  these,  he  overheard  two  citizens  talking 
of  Mr.  Chapman.  It  was  indeed  Mr.  Williams  explaining 
to  a  fellow-burgess  just  returned  to  Gatesboro',  after  a 
week's  absence,  how  and  by  what  manner  of  man  Mr. 
Hartopp  had  been  taken  in.  At  what  Williams  said,  the 
Cobbler's  cheek  paled.  When  he  joined  the  Comedian, 
his  manner  was  greatly  altered  ;  he  gave  the  tickets  with- 
out speaking,  but  looked  hard  into  Waife's  face,  as  the 
latter  repaid  him  the  fares.  "No,"  said  the  Cobbler, 
suddenly,  "I  don't  believe  it." 

"  Believe  what  ?  "  asked  Waife,  startled. 

"That  you  are—" 

The  Cobbler  paused,  bent  forward,  and  whispered  the 
rest  of  the  sentence  close  in  the  vagrant's  ear.  Waife's 
head  fell  on  his  bosom,  but  he  made  no  answer. 

"Speak,"  cried  Merle;  "say  'tis  a  lie."  The  poor 
cripple's  lip  writhed,  but  he  still  spoke  not. 

Merle  looked  aghast  at  that  obstinate  silence.  At 
length,  but  very  slowly,  as  the  warning  bell  summoned  him 
and  Sir  Isaac  to  their  several  places  in  the  train,  Waife 
found  voice.  "  So  you  too,  you  too  desert  and  despise 
me  I  God's  will  be  done  1"  He  moved  away  —  spiritless, 
limping,  hiding  his  face  as  well  as  he  could      The  porter 

I.— 33  z 


386  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

took  the  dog  from  him,  to  thrust  it  into  one  of  the  boxes 
reserved  for  such  four-footed  passengers. 

Waife,  thus  parted  from  his  last  friend  —  I  mean  the 
dog  —  looked  after  Sir  Isaac  wistfully,  and  crept  into  a 
third-class  carriage,  in  which  luckily  there  was  no  one 
else.  Suddenly  Merle  jumped  in,  snatched  his  hand,  and 
pressed  it  tightly.  "  I  don't  despise,  I  don't  turn  my  back 
on  you  ;  whenever  you  and  the  little  one  want  a  home 
and  a  friend,  come  to  Kit  Merle  as  before,  and  I'll  bite 
my  tongue  out  if  I  ask  any  more  questions  of  you ;  I'll 
ask  the  stars  instead." 

The  Cobbler  had  but  just  time  to  splutter  out  these 
comforting  words,  and  redescend  the  carriage,  when  the 
train  put  itself  into  movement,  and  the  lifelike  iron  miracle, 
fuming,  hissing,  and  screeching,  bore  off  to  London  its 
motley  convoy  of  human  beings,  each  passenger's  heart 
a  mystery  to  the  other,  all  bound  the  same  road,  all  wedged 
close  within  the  same  whirling  mechanism  :  what  a  sepa- 
rate and  distinct  world  in  each  1  Such  is  Civilization  1 
How  like  we  are  one  to  the  other  in  the  mass  I  how 
strangely  dissimilar  in  the  abstract  1 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  387 


CHAPTER  lY. 

•  If,"  says  a  great  thinker  (Dkgkrando,  Du  Perfectionment  Moral, 
chap,  ix.,  "On  the  Difficulties  we  encounter  in  Self  Study")  — 
♦'  If  one  concentrates  reflection  too  much  on  one's  self,  one  ends 
by  no  longer  seeing  anything,  or  seeing  only  what  one  wishes. 
By  the  vevy  act,  as  it  were,  of  capturing  one's  self,  the  person- 
age we  believe  we  have  seized,  escapes,  disappears.  Nor  is  it 
only  the  complexity  of  our  inner  being  which  obstructs  our  ex- 
amination, but  its  exceeding  variability.  The  investigator's  re- 
gard should  embrace  all  the  sides  of  the  subject,  and  perseveringly 
pursue  all  its  phases." 

It  is  the  race-week  in  Humberston,  a  county  town  far 
from  Qatesboro',  and  in  the  north  of  England.  The  races 
last  three  days ;  the  first  day  is  over ;  it  has  been  a 
brilliant  spectacle  ;  the  course  crowded  with  the  carriages 
of  provincial  magnates,  with  equestrian  betters  of  note 
from  the  metropolis ;  blacklegs  in  great  muster ;  there 
have  been  gaming-booths  on  the  ground,  and  gipsies  tell- 
ing fortunes ;  much  Champagne  imbibed  by  the  well-bred, 
much  soda-water  and  brandy  by  the  vulgar.  Thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands  have  been  lost  and  won ;  some 
paupers  been  for  the  time  enriched  ;  some  rich  men  made 
poor  for  life.  Horses  have  won  fame  ;  some  of  their 
owners  lost  character.  Din  and  uproar,  and  coarse  oaths, 
and  rude  passions  —  all  have  had  their  hour.  The  ama- 
teurs of  the  higher  classes  have  gone  back  to  dignified 
couniry-houses,  as  courteous  hosts  or  favored  guests.    The 


888  WHAT    WILL    HE    1)0    WITH    IT? 

professional  speculators  of  a  lower  grade  have  poured 
back  into  the  country  town,  and  inns  and  taverns  are 
crowded.  Drink  is  hotly  called  for  at  reeking  bars  ; 
waiters  and  chambermaids  pass  to  and  fro,  with  dishes, 
and  tankards,  and  bottles,  in  their  hands.  All  is  noise 
and  bustle,  and  eating  and  swilling,  and  disputation  and 
slang,  wild  glee  and  wilder  despair  among  those  who  come 
back  from  the  race-course  to  the  inns  in  the  county  town. 
At  one  of  these  taverns,  neither  the  best  nor  the  worst, 
and  in  a  small  narrow  slice  of  a  room  that  seemed  robbed 
from  the  landing-place,  sate  Mrs.  Crane,  in  her  iron-gray 
silk  gown.  She  was  seated  close  by  the  open  window,  as 
carriages,  chaises,  flies,  carts,  vans,  and  horsemen,  suc- 
ceeded each  othei*  thick  and  fast,  watching  the  scene  with 
a  soured,  scornful  look.  For  human  joy,  as  for  human 
grief,  she  had  little  sympathy.  Life  had  no  Saturnalian 
holidays  left  for  her.  Some  memory  in  her  past  had 
poisoned  the  well-springs  of  her  social  being.  Hopes  and 
objects  she  had  still,  but  out  of  the  wrecks  of  the  natur-al 
and  healthful  existence  of  womanhood  those  objects  and 
hopes  stood  forth  exaggerated,  intense,  as  are  the  ruling 
passions  in  monomania.  A  bad  woman  is  popularly  said 
to  be  worse  than  a  wicked  man.  If  so,  partly  because 
women,  being  more  solitary,  brood  more  unceasingly  over 
cherished  ideas,  whether  good  or  evil ;  partly  also,  for  the 
same  reason  that  makes  a  wicked  gentleman,  who  has  lost 
caste  and  character,  more  irreclaimable  than  a  wicked 
clown,  low-born  and  low-bred,  viz.  :  that  in  proportion  to 
the  loss  of  shame  is  the  gain  in  recklessness ;  but  princi- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  389 

pally,  perhaps,  because  in  extreme  wickedness  there  is 
necessarily  a  distortion  of  the  reasoning  faculty ;  and 
man,  accustomed  from  the  cradle  rather  to  reason  than  to 
feel,  has  that  faculty  more  firm  against  abrupt  twists  ana 
lesions  than  it  is  in  woman  ;  where  virtue  may  have  left 
him,  logic  may  still  linger,  and  he  may  decline  to  push 
evil  to  a  point  at  which  it  is  clear  to  his  understanding 
that  profit  vanishes  and  punishment  rests  ;  while  woman, 
once  abandoned  to  ill,  finds  suflBcient  charm  in  its  mere 
excitement ;  and,  regardless  of  consequences,  where  the 
man  asks,  "  Can  I  ?  "  raves  out,  "  I  will !  "  Thus  man 
may  be  criminal  through  cupidity,  vanity,  love,  jealousy, 
fear,  ambition,  rarely  in  civilized,  that  is,  reasoning  life, 
through  hate  and  revenge ;  for  hate  is  a  profitless  invest- 
ment, and  revenge  a  ruinous  speculation.  But  when 
women  are  thoroughly  depraved  and  hardened,  nine  times 
out  of  ten  it  is  hatred  or  revenge  that  makes  them  so. 
Arabella  Crane  had  not,  however,  attained  to  that  last 
state  of  wickedness,  which,  consistent  in  evil,  is  callous  to 
remorse ;  she  was  not  yet  unsexed.  In  her  nature  was 
still  that  essence,  "  varying  and  mutable,"  which  distin- 
guishes woman  while  womanhood  is  left  to  her.  And 
now,  as  she  sate  gazing  on  the  throng  below,  her  haggard 
mind  recoiled  perhaps  from  the  conscious  shadow  of  the 
Evil  Principle  which,  invoked  as  an  ally,  remains  as  a 
destroyer.  Her  dark  front  relaxed  ;  she  moved  in  her 
seat  uneasily.  "  Must  it  be  always  thus  !  "  she  muttered 
—  "  always  this  hell  here  1  Even  now,  if  in  one  large 
pardon  I  could  include  the  undoer,  the  earth,  myself,  and 
33* 


390  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

airain  be  human  —  human,  even  as  those  slight  triflers  or 
coarse  brawlers  that  pass  yonder  !  Oh,  for  something  in 
common  with  common  life  ! " 

Her  lips  closed,  and  her  eyes  again  fell  upon  the 
crowded  street.  At  that  moment  three  or  four  heavy 
vans  or  wagons  filled  with  operatives,  or  laborers  and 
their  wives,  coming  back  from  the  race-course,  obstructed 
the  w^ay  ;  two  out-riders  with  satin  jackets  were  expostu- 
lating, cracking  their  whips,  and  seeking  to  clear  space 
for  an  open  carriage  with  four  thorough-bred  impatient 
horses.  Toward  that  carriage  every  gazer  from  the  win- 
dows w^as  directing  eager  eyes ;  each  foot-passenger  on 
the  pavement  lifted  his  hat  —  evidently  in  that  carriage 
some  great  person  I  Like  all  who  are  at  war  with  the 
world  as  it  is,  Arabella  Crane  abhorred  the  great,  and  de- 
spised the  small  for  worshiping  the  great.  But  still  her 
own  fierce  dark  eyes  mechanically  followed  those  of  the 
vulgar.  The  carriage  bore  a  marquis's  coronet  on  its 
panels,  and  was  filled  with  ladies ;  two  other  carriages 
bearing  a  similar  coronet,  and  evidently  belonging  to  the 
same  party,  were  in  the  rear.  Mrs.  Crane  started.  In 
that  first  carriage,  as  it  now  slowly  moved  under  her  very 
window,  and  paused  a  minute  or  more,  till  the  obstructing 
vehicles  in  front  were  marshaled  into  order  —  there  flash- 
ed upon  her  eyes  a  face  radiant  with  female  beauty  in  its 
more  glorious  prime.  Among  the  crowd  at  that  moment 
was  a  blind  man,  adding  to  the  various  discords  of  the 
street  by  a  miserable  hurdy-gurdy.  In  the  movement  of 
the  throng  to  get  nearer  to  a  sight  of  the  ladies  in  the 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  391 

carriage,  this  poor  creature  was  thrown  forward  ;  the  dog 
that  led  him,  an  ugly  brute,  on  his  own  account  or  his 
master's,  took  fright,  broke  from  the  string,  and  ran  under 
the  horses'  hoofs,  snarling.  The  horses  became  restive ; 
the  blind  man  made  a  plunge  after  his  dog,  and  was  all 
but  run  over.  The  lady. in  the  first  carriage,  alarmed  for 
his  safety,  rose  up  from  her  seat,  and  made  her  outriders 
dismount,  lead  away  the  poor  blind  man,  and  restore  to 
him  his  dog.  Thus  engaged,  her  face  shone  full  upon 
Arabella  Crane ;  and  with  that  face  rushed  a  tide  of 
earlier  memories.  Long,  very  long  since  she  had  seen 
that  face  —  seen  it  in  those  years  when  she  herself,  Ara- 
bella Crane,  was  young  and  handsome. 

The  poor  man  —  who  seemed  not  to  realize  the  idea  of 
the  danger  he  had  escaped  —  once  more  safe,  the  lady 
resumed  her  seat ;  and  now  that  the  momentary  animation 
of  humane  fear  and  womanly  compassion  passed  from  her 
countenance  —  its  expression  altered  —  it  took  the  calm, 
almost  the  coldness,  of  a  Greek  statue.  But  with  the 
calm  there  was  a  listless  melancholy  which  Greek  sculpture 
never  gives  to  the  Parian  stone  ;  stone  can  not  convey 
that  melancholy  —  it  is  the  shadow  which  needs  for  its  sub- 
stance a  living,  mortal  heart. 

Crack  went  the  whips;  the  horses  bounded  on  —  the 
equipage  rolled  fast  down  the  street,  followed  by  its  satel- 
lites. "  Well  !"  said  a  voice  in  the  street  below,  "  I  never 
saw  Lady  Montfort  in  such  beauty.  Ah,  here  comes  my 
lord  !" 

Mrs.  Crane  heard  and  looked  forth  again.     A  dozeo 


392  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

or  more  gentlemen  on  horseback  rode  slowly  up  the  street ; 
which  of  these  was  Lord  Montfort  ?  —  not  difficult  to  dis- 
tinguish. As  the  by-standers  lifted  their  hats  to  the  cav- 
alcade, the  horsemen  generally  returned  the  salutation  by 
simply  touching  their  own  —  one  horseman  uncovered 
wholly.  That  one  must  be  the  Marquis,  the  greatest 
man  in  those  parts,  with  lands  stretching  away  on  either 
side  that  town  for  miles  and  miles  ;  a  territory  which  in 
feudal  times  might  have  alarmed  a  king.  He,  the  civil- 
est,  must  be  the  greatest.  A  man  still  young,  decidedly 
good-looking,  wonderfully  well-dressed,  wonderfully  well- 
mounted,  the  careless  ease  of  high  rank  in  his  air  and  ges- 
ture. To  the  superficial  gaze,  just  what  the  great  Lord 
of  Montfort  should  be.  Look  again  !  In  that  fair  face 
is  there  not  something  that  puts  you  in  mind  of  a  florid 
period  which  contains  a  feeble  platitude  ?  —  something  in 
its  very  prettiness  that  betrays  a  weak  nature,  and  a 
sterile  mind  ? 

The  cavalcade  passed  away  —  the  vans  and  the  wagons 
again  usurped  the  thoroughfare.  Arabella  Crane  left  the 
window,  and  approached  the  little  looking-glass  over  the 
mantel-piece.  She  gazed  upon  her  own  face  bitterly  — 
she  was  comparing  it  with  the  features  (.  f  the  dazzling 
Marchioness. 

The  door  was  flung  open,  and  Jasper  Los^pIj  sauntered 
in,  whistling  a  French  air,  and  flapping  the  dust  from  his 
boots  with  his  kid  glove.  "All  right,"  said  he,  gayly. 
"A  famous  day  of  it." 

"  You  have  won/'  said  Mrs.  Crane,  in  a  tone  rather  of 
disappointment  than  congratulation. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  39S 

"  Yes.  That  £100  of  Riigge's  has  been  the  making 
of  me.  I  only  wanted  a  capital  just  to  start  with  !"  He 
flung  himself  into  a  chair,  opened  his  pocket-book,  and 
scrutinized  its  contents.  "  Guess,"  said  he,  suddenly,  "  on 
whose  horse  I  won  these  two  rouleaux  ?  Lord  Montfort's  ! 
Ay,  and  I  saw  my  lady  I" 

"  So  did  I  see  her,  from  this  window.  She  did  not 
look  happy  I" 

"  Not  happy  !  — with  such  an  equipage  I  neatest  turn- 
out I  ever  set  eyes  on  ;  not  happy,  indeed  I  I  had  half  a 
mind  to  ride  up  to  her  carriage  and  advance  a  claim  to 
her  gratitude." 

"  Gratitude !  Oh,  for  your  part  in  that  miserable 
affair  of  which  you  told  me  ? " 

"  Not  a  miserable  affair  for  her,  but  certainly  I  never 
got  any  good  from  it  —  trouble  for  nothing  1  Bada! 
No  use  looking  back  !  " 

"  No  use  ;  but  who  can  help  it ! "  said  Arabella  Crane, 
sighing  heavily ;  then,  as  if  eager  to  change  the  subject 
she  added,  abruptly,  "  Mr.  Rugge  has  been  here  twice 
this  morning,  highly  excited  — the  child  will  not  act.  He 
says  you  are  bound  to  make  her  do  so  I " 

"  Nonsense..  That  is  his  look-out.  I  see  after  children, 
indeed  I " 

Mrs.  Crane  (with  a  visible  effort).  "  Listen  to  me, 
Jasper  Losely,  I  have  no  reason  to  love  that  child,  as  you 
may  suppose.  But  now  that  you  so  desert  her,  I  think  I 
feel  compassion  for  her ;  and  when,  this  morning,  I  raised 
my  hand  to  strike  her  for  her  stubborn  spirit,  and  saw  hcf 


39t  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH     IT? 

eyes  unflinching,  and  her  pale,  pale,  but  fearless  face,  my 
arm  fell  to  my  side  powerless.  She  will  not  take  to  this 
life  without  the  old  man.     She  will  waste  away  and  die." 

LosELY.  "  How  you  bother  me  1  Are  you  serious  ? 
What  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

Mrs.  Crane.  "You  have  won  money  you  say  ;  revoke 
the  contract;  pay  Rugge  back  his  £100.  He  is  dis- 
appointed in  his  bargain;  he  will  take  the  money." 

LosELY.  "I  dare  say  he  will,  indeed.  No  —  I  have 
won  to-day,  it  is  true,  but  I  may  lose  to-morrow,  and, 
besides,  I  am  in  want  of  so  many  things ;  when  one  gets 
a  little  money,  one  has  an  immediate  necessity  for  more — ■ 
ha  I  ha  !  Still  I  would  not  have  the  child  die  ;  and  she 
may  grow  up  to  be  of  use.  I  tell  you  what  I  will  do  ;  if, 
when  the  races  are  over,  I  find  I  have  gained  enough  to 
afford  it,  I  will  see  about  buying  her  off.  But  £100  is 
too  much  I  Rugge  ought  to  take  half  the  money,  or  a 
quarter ;  because,  if  she  don't  act,  I  suppose  she  does  eat." 

Odious  as  the  man's  words  were,  he  said  them  with  a 
laugh  that  seemed  to  render  them  less  revolting  —  the 
laugh  of  a  very  handsome  mouth,  showing  teeth  still 
brilliantly  white.  More  comely  than  usual  that  day,  for 
he  was  in  great  good-humor,  it  was  difficult  to  conceive 
that  a  man  with  so  healthful  and  fair  an  exterior  was 
really  quite  rotten   at  heart. 

"Your  own  young  laugh!"  said  Arabella  Crane, 
almost  tenderly.  "I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  this  day  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  less  old  —  altered  though  I  be  in  face  ana 
mind.     I  have  allowed  myself  to  pity  that  child  ;  while  I 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  395 

speak,  I  can  pity  you.  Yes  !  pity  —  when  I  think  of  what 
you  were.  Must  you  go  on  thus  ?  To  what !  Jasper 
Losely,"  she  continued  sharply,  eagerly,  clasping  her 
hands  —  "hear  me  —  I  have  an  income  not  large,  it  is 
true,  but  assured  ;  you  have  nothing  but  what,  as  you  say, 
you  may  lose  to-morrow ;  share  my  income  !  Fulfil  your 
solemn  promises  —  marry  me.  I  will  forget  whose  daugh- 
ter that  girl  is  —  I  will  be  a  mother  to  her.  And  for 
yourself,  give  me  the  right  to  feel  for  you  again  as  I  once 
did,  and  I  may  find  a  way  to  raise  you  yet  —  higher  than 
you  can  raise  yourself.  I  have  some  wit,  Jasper,  as  you 
know.  At  the  worst  you  shall  have  the  pastime  —  I,  the 
toil.  In  your  illness  I  will  nurse  you  ;  in  your  joys  I  will 
intrude  no  share.  Whom  else  can  you  marry  ?  to  whom 
else  could  you  confide  ?  who  else  could  — " 

She  stopped  short  as  if  an  adder  had  stung  her,  utter- 
ing a  shriek  of  rage,  of  pain  ;  for  Jasper  Losely,  who  had 
hitherto  listened  to  her,  stupefied,  astounded,  here  burst 
into  a  fit  of  merriment,  in  which  there  was  such  undis- 
guised contempt,  such  an  enjoyment  of  the  ludicrous,  pro- 
voked by  the  idea  of  the  marriage  pressed  upon  him,  that 
the  insult  pierced  the  woman  to  her  very  soul. 

Continuing  his  laugh,  despite. that  cry  of  wrathful  agony 
it  had  caused,  Jasper  rose,  holding  his  sides,  and  surveying 
bimself  in  the  glass,  with  very  different  feelings  at  the 
sight  from  those  that  had  made  his  companion's  gaze  there 
ft  few  minutes  before  so  mournful 

"  My  dear  good  friend,"  he  said,  composing  himself  at 
^st,  and  wiping  his  eyes,  "excuse  me,  but  really  when 


306  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH     IT? 

70 u  said  whom  else  could  I  marry  —  ha!  ha!  —  it  did 
seem  such  a  capital  joke  !  Marry  you,  my  fair  Crane  ! 
No  —  put  that  idea  out  of  your  head  —  we  know  each 
other  too  well  for  conjugal  felicity.  You  love  me  now  ; 
you  always  did,  and  always  will  —  that  is,  while  we  are 
not  tied  to  each  other.  Women  who  once  love  me, 
always  love  me  —  can't  help  themselves.  I  am  sure  I 
don't  know  why,  except  that  I  am  what  they  call  a  villain  I 
Ha  !  the  clock  striking  seven  —  I  dine  with  a  set  of  fellows 
I  have  picked  up  on  the  race-ground ;  they  don't  know 
me,  nor  I  them  ;  we  shall  be  better  acquainted  after  the 
third  bottle.  Cheer  up,  Crane  ;  go  and  scold  Sophy,  and 
make  her  act  if  you  can  ;  if  not,  scold  Rugge  into  letting 
her  alone.  Scold  somebody  —  nothing  like  it,  to  keep 
other  folks  quiet,  and  one's  self  busy.  Adieu  !  and  pray, 
no  more  matrimonial  sohcitations  —  they  frighten  me  I 
Gad,"  added  Losely,  as  he  banged  the  door,  "  such  over- 
tures would  frighten  Old  Nick  himself  I " 

Did  Arabella  Crane  hear  those  last  words  —  or  had  she 
not  heard  enough  ?  If  Losely  had  turned  and  beheld  her 
face,  would  it  have  startled  back  his  trivial  laugh  ? 
Possibly  ;  but  it  would  have  caused  only  a  momentary  un- 
easiness. If  Alecto  herself  had  reared  over  him  her  brow 
horrent  with  vipers,  Jasper  Losely  would  have  thought  he 
had  only  to  look  handsome,  and  say  coaxingly,  "Alecto, 
my  dear  1 "  and  the  Fury  would  have  pawned  her  '.  ead- 
dress  to  pay  his  washing-bill. 

After  all,  in  the  face  of  the  grim  woman  he  had  thus  so 
vantonly  incensed  there  was  not  so  much  menace  as  r«' 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  397 

solve.  And  that  resolve  was  yet  more  shown  in  the  move 
ment  of  the  hands  than  in  the  aspect  of  the  countenance  ; 
those  hands  —  lean,  firm,  nervous  hands  —  slowly  ex- 
panded ;  then  as  slowly  clenched,  as  if  her  own  thought 
had  taken  substance,  and  she  was  locking  it  in  a  clasp  — 
tightly,  tightly — never  to  be  loosened  till  the  pulse  was 
stilL 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  most  submissive  where  they  love  may  be  the  most  stubborn 
where  they  do  not  love.  —  Sophy  is  stubborn  to  Mr.  Rugge. — 
That  injured  man  summons  to  his  side  Mrs.  Crane,  imitating  the 
policy  of  those  potentates  who  would  retrieve  the  failures  of 
force  by  the  successes  of  diplomacy. 

Mr.  Rugge  has  obtained  his  object.  But  now  comes 
the  question,  "  What  will  he  do  with  it  ? "  Question 
with  as  many  heads  as  the  Hydra  ;  and'no  sooner  does  an 
Author  dispose  of  one  head  than  up  springs  another. 

Sophy  has  been  bought  and  paid  for  —  she  is  now, 
legally,  Mr.  Rugge's  property.  But  there  was  a  wise 
peer  who  once  bought  Punch  —  Punch  became  his  pro- 
perty, and  was  brought  in  triumph  to  his  lordship's  house. 
To  my  lord's  great  dismay  Punch  would  not  talk.  To 
Rugge's  great  dismay  Sophy  would  not  act. 

Rendered  up  to  Jasper  Losely  and  Mrs.  Crane,  they 
fiad  not  lost  an  hour  in  removing  her  from  Gatesboro'  and 
its  neighborhood.   They  did  not,  however,  go  back  to  the 

L  — 34 


398  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

village  in  which  they  had  left  Rugge,  but  returned  straight 
to  London,  and  wrote  to  the  manager  to  join  them  there. 
Sophy,  once  captured,  seemed  stupefied ;  she  evinced 
no  noisy  passion  —  she  made  no  violent  resistance.  When 
she  was  told  to  love  and  obey  a  father  in  Jasper  Losely, 
she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face  —  then  turned  them  away, 
and  shook  her  head,  mute  and  incredulous.  That  man 
her  father  !  she  did  not  believe  it.  Indeed,  Jasper  took 
no  pains  to  convince  her  of  the  relationship,  or  win  her 
attachment.  He  was  not  unkindly  rough ;  he  seemed 
wholly  indifferent  —  probably  he  was  so  —  for  the  ruliLg 
vice  of  the  man  was  in  his  egotism.  It  was  not  so  much 
that  he  had  bad  principles  and  bad  feelings,  as  that  he 
had  no  principles  and  no  feelings  at  all,  except  as  they 
began,  continued,  and  ended  in  that  system  of  centraliza- 
tion, which  not  more  paralyzes  healthful  action  in  a  state 
than  it  does  in  the  individual  man.  Self-indulgence  with 
him  was  absolute.  He  was  not  without  power  of  keen 
calculation,  not  without  much  cunning.  He  could  con- 
ceive a  project  for  some  gain  far  off  in  the  future,  and 
concoct,  for  its  realization,  schemes  subtly  woven,  astutely 
guarded.  But  he  could  not  secure  their  success  by  any 
long-sustained  sacrifices  of  the  caprice  of  one  hour  or  the 
indolence  of  the  next.  If  it  had  been  a  great  object  to 
him  for  life  to  win  Sophy's  filial  affection,  he  would  not 
have  bored  himself  for  five  minutes  each  day  to  gain  that 
object.  Besides,  he  had  just  enough  of  shame  to  render 
him  uneasy  at  the  sight  of  the  child  he  had  deliberately 
Bold.     So,  after  chucking  her  under  the  chin,  and  tolling 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  399 

her  to  be  a  good  girl  and  be  grateful  for  all  that  Mrs. 
Crane  had  done  for  her,  and  meant  still  to  do,  he  con- 
signed her  almost  solely  to  that  lady's  care. 

When  Rugge  arrived,  and  Sophy  was  informed  of  her 
intended  destination,  she  broke  silence ;  her  color  went 
and  came  quickly ;  she  declared,  folding  her  arms  upon 
her  breast,  that  she  would  never  act  if  separated  from  her 
grandfather.  Mrs.  Crane,  struck  by  her  manner,  suggested 
to  Rugge  that  it  might  be  as  well  now  that  she  was  legally 
secured  to  the  manager,  to  humor  her  wish,  and  re-engag(, 
Waife.  Whatever  the  tale  with  which,  in  order  to  obtain 
Sophy  from  the  Mayor,  she  had  turned  that  worthy  ma- 
gistrate's mind  against  the  Comedian,  she  had  not  gratified 
Mr.  Rugge  by  a  similar  confidence  to  him.  To  him  she 
said  nothing  which  might  operate  against  renewing  en- 
gagements with  "Waife,  if  he  were  so  disposed.  But 
Rugge  had  no  faith  in  a  child's  firmness,  and  he  had  a 
strong  spite  against  Waife,  so  he  obstinately  refused.  He 
insisted,  however,  as  a  peremptory  condition  of  the  bar- 
gain, that  Mr.  Losely  and  Mrs.  Crane  should  accompany 
him  to  the  town  to  which  he  had  transferred  his  troop, 
both  in  order  by  their  presence  to  confirm  his  authority 
over  Sophy,  and  to  sanction  his  claim  to  her,  should  Waife 
reappear  and  dispute  it.  For  Rugge's  profession  being 
scarcely  legitimate,  and  decidedly  equivocal,  his  right  to 
bring  up  a  female  child  to  the  same  calling  might  be  called 
in  question  before  a  magistrate,  and  necessitate  the  pro- 
duction of  her  father  in  order  to  substantiate  the  special 
contract.     In  return,  the  manager  handsomely  offered  to 


400  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Mr  Losely  and  Mrs.  Crane  to  pay  their  expenses  in  the 
excursion  —  a  liberality  haughtily  rejected  by  Mrs,  Crane 
for  herself,  though  she  agreed  at  her  own  charge  to  ac- 
company Losely,  if  he  decided  on  complying  with  the 
manager's  request.  Losely  at  first  raised  objections,  but 
hearing  that  there  would  be  races  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  having  a  peculiar  passion  for  betting  and  all  kinds 
of  gambling,  as  well  as  an  ardent  desire  to  enjoy  his  £100 
in  so  fashionable  a  manner,  he  consented  to  delay  his  re- 
turn to  the  Continent,  and  attend  Arabella  Crane  to  the 
provincial  Elis.  Rugge  carried  off  Sophy  to  her  fellow 
"  orphans." 

And  Sophy  would  not  act  ! 

In  vain  she  was  coaxed  —  in  vain  she  was  threatened 
- — in  vain  she  was  deprived  of  food  — in  vain  shut  up  in 
a  dark  hole  —  in  vain  was  the  lash  held  over  her.  Rugge, 
tyrant  though  he  was,  did  not  suffer  the  lash  to  fall.  His 
self-restraint  there  might  be  humanity  —  might  be  fear  of 
the  consequences.  For  the  state  of  her  health  began  to 
alarm  him  ;  she  might  die  —  there  might  be  an  inquest. 
He  wished  now  that  he  had  taken  Mrs.  Crane's  sugges- 
tion, and  re-engaged  Waife.  But  where  was  Waife  ? 
Meanwhile  he  had  advertised  the  Young  Phenomenon ; 
placarded  the  walls  with  the  name  of  Juliet  Araminta ; 
got  up  the  piece  of  the  Remorseless  Baron,  with  a  new 
rock  scene.  As  Waife  had  had  nothing  to  say  in  that 
drama,  so  any  one  could  act  his  part 

The  first  performance  was  announced  for  that  night : 
there  would  be  such  an  audience  —  the  best  seats  ever 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  401 

now  pre-eugaged  —  first  night  of  the  race  week.  The 
clock  had  struck  seven  —  the  performance  began  at  eight. 
And  Sophy  would  not  act  I 

The  child  was  seated  in  a  space  that  served  for  thvj 
green-room  behind  the  scenes.  The  whole  company  had 
been  convened  to  persuade  or  shame  her  out  of  her  obsti- 
nacy. The  king's  lieutenant,  the  seductive  personage  of 
the  troop,  was  on  one  knee  to  her,  like  a  lover.  He  was 
accustomed  to  lover's  parts,  both  on  the  stage  and  off  it. 
Off  it  he  had  one  favored  phrase,  hackneyed  but  effective 
"  You  are  too  pretty  to  be  so  cruel."  Thrice  he  now  re- 
peated that  phrase,  with  a  simper  that  might  have  melted 
a  heart  of  stone  between  each  repetition.  Behind  Sophy's 
chair,  and  sticking  calico-flowers  into  the  child's  tresses, 
stood  the  senior  matron  of  the  establishment  —  not  a  bad 
sort  of  woman  —  who  kept  the  dresses,  nursed  the  sick, 
revered  Rugge,  told  fortunes  on  a  pack  of  cards  which 
she  always  kept  in  her  pocket,  and  occasionally  in  parts 
where  age  was  no  drawback  and  ugliness  desirable — such 
as  a  witch,  or  duenna,  or  whatever  in  the  dialogue  was 
poetically  called  "Hag."  Indeed,  Hag  was  the  name 
she  usually  took  from  Rugge  —  that  which  she  bore  from 
her  defunct  husband  was  Gormerick.  This  lady,  as  she 
braided  the  garland,  was  also  bent  on  the  soothing 
system,  saying,  with  great  sweetness,  considering  that  her 
mouth  was  full  of  pins,  "  Now,  deary — now,  dovey — look 
at  ooself  in  the  glass  ;  we  could  beat  oo,  and  pinch  oo, 
and  stick  pins  into  oo,  dovey,  but  we  won't.  Dovey  will 
34*  2  a 


402  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

be  good,  I  know  ;"  and  a  great  pat  of  rouge  came  on  the 
child's  pale  cheeks.  The  clown  therewith-  squatting  be- 
fore her  with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  grinned  lustily,  and 
shrieked  out,  "  My  eyes,  what  a  beauty  I  " 

Rugge,  meanwhile,  one  hand  thrust  in  his  bosom,  con- 
templated the  diplomatic  efforts  of  his  ministers,  and  saw 
by  Sophy's  compressed  lips  and  unwinking  eyes,  that 
their  cajoleries  were  unsuccessful.  He  approached,  and 
Lisscd  into  her  ear,  "  Don't  madden  me  I  don't  —  you  will 
act,  eh?" 

"  Xo,"  said  Sophy,  suddenly  rising ;  and  tearing  the 
wreath  from  her  hair,  she  set  her  small  foot  on  it  with 
force.     "  No  !  not  if  you  killed  me  !  " 

''  Gods  I "  faltered  Rugge.  "And  the  sum  I  have  paid  I 
I  am  diddled  I     Who  has  gone  for  Mrs.  Crane  ?'J 

"Tom,"  said  the  clown. 

The  word  was  scarcely  out  of  the  clown's  mouth  ere 
Mrs.  Crane  herself  emerged  from  a  side-scene,  and,  putting 
off  her  bonnet,  laid  both  hands  on  the  child's  shoulders, 
and  looked  her  in  the  face  without  speaking.  The  child 
as  firmly  returned  the  gaze.  Give  that  child  a  martyr's 
cause,  and  in  that  frail  body  there  would  have  been  a 
martyr's  soul.  Arabella  Crane,  not  inexperienced  in 
children,  recognized  a  power  of  will,  stronger  than  the 
power  of  brute  force,  in  that  tranquillity  of  eye  —  the 
gpark  of  calm  light  in  its  tender  blue  —  blue,  pure  as  the 
sky ;  light,  steadfast  as  the  star. 

"Leave  her  to  me,  all  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Crane.     "I 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH     IT?  403 

will  take  her  to  jour  private  room,  Mr.  Rugge  ;  "  and  she 
led  the  child  away  to  a  sort  of  recess,  room  it  could  not 
be  rightly  called,  fenced  round  with  boxes  and  crates, 
and  containing  the  manager's  desk  and  two  stools. 

"  Sophy,"  then  said  Mrs.  Crane,  "you  say  you  will  not 
act  unless  your  grandfather  be  with  you.  Now,  hear  me. 
You  know  that  I  have  been  always  stern  and  hard  with 
you.  I  never  professed  to  love  you^ — nor  do  I.  But 
you  have  not  found  me  untruthful.  When  I  say  a  thing 
seriously,  as  I  am  speaking  now,  you  may  believe  me 
Act  to-night,  and  I  will  promise  you  faithfully  that  I  wil 
either  bring  your  grandfather  here,  or  I  will  order  it  so 
that  you  shall  be  restored  to  him.  If  you  refuse,  I  make 
no  threat,  but  I  shall  leave  this  place ;  and  my  belief  is 
that  you  will  be  your  grandfather's  death." 

"  His  death  —  his  death  —  I !  " 

"  By  first  dying  yourself.  Oh,  you  smile  ;  you  think  it 
would  be  happiness  to  die.  What  matter  that  the  old 
man  you  profess  to  care  for  is  broken-hearted  I  Brat  I 
leave  selfishness  to  boys  —  you  are  a  girl  I     Suffer  1" 

"  Selfish  !  "  murmured  Sophy,  "  selfish  !  that  was  said 
of  me  before.  Selfish  !  —  ah,  I  understand.  No,  I  ought 
not  to  wish  to  die  —  what  would  become  of  him  ?  "  She 
fell  on  her  knees,  and,  raising  both  her  clasped  hands, 
prayed  inly,  silently  —  an  instant,  not  more.  She  rose. 
"  If  I  do  act,  then  —  it  is  a  promise  —  you  will  keep  it. 
I  shall  see  him  —  he  shall  know  where  I  am  —  we  shall 
meet  I " 


404  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

•  A  promise  —  sacred.  I  will  keep  it.  Oh,  girl,  how 
nmch  you  will  love  some  day — how  your  heart  will  ache  ! 
anci  when  you  are  my  age,  look  at  that  heart,  then  at 
at  your  glass  —  perhaps  you  may  be,  within  and  ^without, 
like  me." 

Sophy  —  innocent  Sophy  —  stared,  awe-stricken,  but 
uncomprehending.     Mrs.  Crane  led  her  back  passive. 

"  There,  she  will  act.  Put  on  the  wreath.  Trick  her 
out.  Hark  ye,  Mr.  Rugge.  This  is  for  one  night.  I 
have  made  conditions  with  her  :  either  you  must  take  back 
her  grandfather,  or  —  she  must  return  to  him. " 

"And  my  £100?" 

"In  the  latter  case  ought  to  be  repaid  you." 

"  Am  I  never  to  have  the  Royal  York  theater  ?  Am- 
bition of  my  life,  Ma'am  I  Dreamed  of  it  thrice  1  Ha  I 
but  she  will  act,  and  succeed.  But  to  take  back  the  old 
vagabond  —  a  bitter  pill  I  He  shall  halve  it  with  me ! 
Ma'am,  I'm  your  grateful — " 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  406 


CHAPTER  YI. 

Threadbare  is  the  simile  which  compares  the  world  to  a  stage, 
Schiller,  less  complimentary  than  Shakspeare,  lowers  the  illus- 
tration from  a  stage  to  a  puppet-show.  But  ever  between  reali- 
ties and  shows  there  is  a  secret  communication,  an  undetected 
interchange — sometimes  a  stem  reality  in  the  heart  of  the  osten- 
sible actor;  a  fantastic  stage-play  in  the  brain  of  the  unnoticed 
spectator.  The  Bandit's  Child  on  the  proscenium  is  still  poor 
little  Sophy,  in  spite  of  garlands  and  rouge.  But  that  honest 
rough-looking  fellow  to  whom,  in  respect  for  services  to  Sovereign 
and  Country,  the  apprentice  yields  way  —  may  he  not  be  —  the 
crafty  Comedian  ? 

Taran-taran-tara — rub-a-dub-dub — play  up  horn  — 
I  oil  drum  —  a  quarter  to  eight ;  and  the  crowd  already 
thick  before  Rugge's  Grand  Exhibition  —  "  Remorseless 
Baron  and  Bandit's  Child  I  Young  Phenomenon — Juliet 
Araminta  —  Patronised  by  the  Nobility  in  general,  and 
expecting  dally  to  be  summoned  to  perform  before  the 
Queen  —  Viml  Begina  !  "  —  Rub-a-dub-dub.  The  com- 
pany issue  from  the  curtain  —  range  in  front  of  the  pro- 
scenium. Splendid  dresses.  The  Phenomenon  1  —  'tis 
she  1 

"  My  eyes,  there's  a  beauty  1 "  cries  the  clown. 

The  days  have  already  grown  somewhat  shorter ;  but 
it  is  not  yet  dusk.  How  charmingly  pretty  she  still  is, 
despite  that  horrid  paint ;  but  how  wasted  those  poor 
bare   snowy  arms  I 


406  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

A  most  doleful  lugubrious  dirge  mingles  with  the  drum 
and  horn.  A  man  has  forced  his  way  close  by  the  stage 
—a  man  with  a  confounded  cracked  hurdy-gurdy.    Whine 

—  whine  —  creaks  the  hurdy-gurdy,  "  Stop  that  —  stop 
that  muzeek,"  cries  a  delicate  apprentice,  clapping  his 
hands  to  his  ears. 

"  Pity  a  poor  blind  — "  answers  the  man  with  a  hurdy- 
gurdy. 

"  Oh  you  are  blind,  are  you  ?  but  we  are  not  deaft* 
There's  a  penny  not  to  play.  What  black  thing  have 
you  got  there  by  a  string  ? " 

"My  dog.  Sir!" 

"  Devilish  ugly  one — not  like  a  dog^more  like  a  bear 

—  with  horns  !  " 

"  I  say,  master,"  cries  the  clown,  "  Here's  a  blind  man 
come  to  see  the  Phenomenon  !  " 

The  crowd  laugh ;  they  make  way  for  the  blind  man's 
black  dog.  They  suspect,  from  the  clown's  address,  that 
the  blind  man  has  something  to  do  with  the  company. 

You  never  saw  two  uglier  specimens  of  their  several 
species  than  the  blind  man  and  his  black  dog.  He  had 
rough  red  hair  and  a  red  beard,  his  face  had  a  sort  of 
twist  that  made  every  feature  seem  crooked.  His  eyes 
were  not  bandaged,  but  the  lids  were  closed,  and  he  lifted 
them  up  piteously  as  if  seeking  for  light.  He  did  not 
seem,  however,  like  a  common  beggar ;  had  rather  the 
appearance  of  a  reduced  sailor.  Yes,  you  would  have 
bet  ten  to  one  he  had  been  a  sailor ;  not  that  his  dress 
belonged  to  that  noble  calling,  but  his  build,  the  roll  of 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  407 

his  walk,  the  tie  of  bis  cravat,  a  blue  anchor  tatooed  on 
that  great  brown  hand  —  certainly  a  sailor  —  a  British 
tar  !  poor  man. 

The  dog  was  hideous  enough  to  have  been  exhibited 
as  d  lusus  natures  —  evidently  very  aged  —  for  its  face 
and  ears  were  gray,  the  rest  of  it  a  rusty  reddish  black. 
It  had  immensely  long  ears,  pricked  up  like  horns.  It 
was  a  dog  that  must  have  been  brought  from  foreign 
^arts  ;  it  might  have  come  from  Acheron,  sire  by  Cerbe- 
rus, so  portentous  and  (if  not  irreverent  the  epithet)  so 
infernal  was  its  aspect,  with  that  gray  face,  those  antlered 
ears,  and  its  ineffably  weird  demeanor  altogether.  A  big 
dog,  too,  and  evidently  a  strong  one.  All  prudent  folks 
would  have  made  way  for  a  man  led  by  that  dog.  Whine 
creaked  the  hurdy-gurdy,  and  bow-wow,  all  of  a  sudden, 
barked  the  dog.  Sophy  stifled  a  cry,  pressed  her  hand 
to  her  breast,  and  such  a  ray  of  joy  flashed  over  her  face 
that  it  would  have  warmed  your  heart  for  a  month  to 
have  seen  it. 

But  do  you  mean  to  say,  Mr.  Author,  that  that  British 
Tar  (gallant,  no  doubt,  but  hideous)  is  Gentleman  Waife, 
or  that  Stygian  animal  the  snowly-curled  Sir  Isaac  ? 

Upon  my  word,  when  I  look  at  them  myself,  I,  the 
Historian,  am  puzzled.  If  it  had  not  been  for  that  bow- 
wow, I  am  sure  Sophy  would  not  have  suspected.  "  Tara- 
taran-tara.  Walk  in,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  walk  in,  the 
performance  is  about  to  commence  I "    Sophy  lingers  last. 

"  Yes,  Sir,"  said  the  blind  man,  who  had  been  talking 
to  the  apprentice.    "  Yes,  Sir,"  said  he,  loud  and  emphati- 


408  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

callj,  as  if  his  word  had  been  questioned.  "  The  chila 
was  snowed  up,  but  luckily  the  window  of  the  hut  was 
left  open.  Exactly  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  that  dog 
came  to  the  window,  set  up  a  howl,  and — " 

Sophy  could  hear  no  more  —  led  away  behind  the  cur- 
tain by  the  King's  Lieutenant.  But  she  had  heard  enough 
to  stir  her  heart  with  an  emotion  that  set  all  the  dimples 
lound  her  lip  into  undulating  play. 


BHD    or    THE    FIRST    YOLUMS, 


WHAT  WILL  HE  DO  WITH  IT? 
BOOK    FOURTH. 

CONTINUED. 


CHAPTER   YII. 

A  Sham  carries  oflF  the  Reality. 

And  she  did  act,  and  how  charmingly  1  with  what  glee 
and  what  gusto  I  Rugge  was  beside  himself  with  pride 
and  rapture.  He  could  hardly  perform  his  own  Baronial 
part  for  admiration.  The  audience,  a  far  choicer  and  more 
fastidious  one  than  that  in  the  Surrey  village,  was  amazed, 
enthusiastic. 

"  I  shall  live  to  see  my  dream  come  true  !  I  shall  have 
the  great  York  Theater  !  "  said  Rugge,  as  he  took  off  his 
wig  and  laid  his  head  on  his  pillow.  "  Restore  her  for 
the  £100  1  not  for  thousands  1" 

Alas,  my  sweet  Sophy,  alas  !  Has  not  the  joy  that  made 
thee  perform  so  well,  undone  thee  ?  Ah  !  hadst  thou  but 
had  the  wit  to  act  horribly,  and  be  hissed  I 

"  Uprose  the  sun,  and  uprose  Baron  Rugge." 

Not  that  ordinarily  he  was  a  very  early  man  ;  but  his 
excitement  broke  his  slumbers.     He  had  taken  up  his 
1*  (5J 


6  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

quarters  on  the  ground  floor  of  a  small  lodging-house 
close  to  his  Exhibition ;  in  the  same  house  lodged  his 
senior  Matron,  and  Sophy  herself.  Mrs.  Gormerick  being 
ordered  to  watch  the  child,  and  never  lose  sight  of  her, 
slept  in  the  same  room  with  Sophy,  in  the  upper  story 
of  the  house.  The  old  woman  served  Rugge  for  house- 
keeper, made  his  tea,  grilled  his  chop,  and  for  company's 
sake  shared  his  meals.  Excitement  as  often  sharpens  the 
appetite  as  it  takes  it  away.  E-ugge  had  supped  on  hope, 
and  he  felt  a  craving  for  a  more  substantial  breakfast. 
Accordingly,  when  he  had  dressed,  he  thrust  his  head 
into  the  passage,  and  seeing  there  the  maid-of-all-work 
unbarring  the  street  door,  bade  her  go  up  stairs  and  wake 
the  Hag,  that  is,  Mrs.  Gormerick.  Saying  this,  he  ex- 
tended a  key ;  for  he  ever  took  the  precaution,  before 
retiring  to  rest,  to  lock  the  door  of  the  room  to  which 
Sophy  was  consigned,  on  the  outside,  and  guard  the  key 
till  the  next  morning. 

The  maid  nodded,  and  ascended  the  stairs.  Less  time 
than  he  expected  passed  away  before  Mrs.  Gormerick 
made  her  appearance,  her  gray  hair  streaming  under  her 
night-cap,  her  form  endued  in  a  loose  wrapper  —  her  very 
face  a  tragedy. 

"  Powders  above  !  What  has  happened  ?  "  exclaimed 
Rugge,  prophetically. 

"  She  is  gone  !  "  sobbed  Mrs.  Gormerick  ;  and  seeing 
the  lifted  arm  and  clenched  fist  of  the  manager,  prudently 
fainted  away. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 


CHAPTER   YIII. 

Corollaries  from  the  problem  suggested  in  Chapters  VI.  and  VIT. 

Broad  daylight,  nearly  nine  o'clock  indeed,  and  Jasper 
Losely  is  walking  back  to  his  inn  from  the  place  at  which 
he  had  dined  the  evening  before.  lie  has  spent  the  night 
drinking,  gambling,  and  though  he  looks  heated,  there  is 
no  sign  of  fatigue.  Nature  in  wasting  on  this  man  many 
of  her  most  glorious  elements  of  happiness,  had  not  for- 
gotten a  Herculean  constitution  —  always  restless  and 
never  tired,  always  drinking  and  never  drunk.  Certainly 
it  is  some  consolation  to  delicate  individuals,  that  it  seldom 
happens  that  the  sickly  are  very  wicked.  Criminals  are 
generally  athletic  —  constitution  and  conscience  equally 
tough  ;  large  backs  to  their  heads  —  strong  suspensorial 
muscles  —  digestions  that  save  them  from  the  over-fine 
nerves  of  the  virtuous.  The  native  animal  must  be  vigor- 
ous in  the  human  being,  when  the  moral  safeguards  are 
daringly  overleaped.  Jasper  was  not  alone,  but  with  an 
acquaintance  he  had  made  at  the  dinner,  and  wliom  he 
invited  to  his  inn  at  breakfast;  they  were  walking 
familiarly  arm  in  arm.  Yery  unlike  the  brilliant  Losely  — 
a  young  man  under  thirty,  who  seemed  to  have  washed 
out  all  the  colors  of  youth  in  dirty  water.  His  eyes  dull, 
their  whites  yellow ;   his  complexion  sodden.     His  form 


8  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

was  tliick-set  and  heavy ;  his  features  pug,  with  a  cross 
of  the  bull-dog.  In  dress,  a  specimen  of  the  flash  style 
of  sporting  man,  as  exhibited  on  the  turf,  or  more  often, 
perhaps,  in  the  King  ;  Belcher  neckcloth,  with  an  immense 
pin  representing  a  jockey  at  full  gallop;  cut  away  coat, 
corduroy  breeches,  and  boots  with  tops  of  a  chalky  white. 
Yet,  withal,  not  the  air  and  walk  of  a  genuine  born  and 
bred  sporting  man,  even  of  the  vulgar  order.  Something 
about  him  which  reveals  the  pretender.  A  would-be 
hawk  with  a  pigeon's  liver  —  a  would-be  sportsman  with 
a  cockney's  nurture. 

Samuel  Adolphus  Poole  is  an  orphan  of  respectable 
connections.  His  future  expectations  chiefly  rest  on  an 
uncle  from  whom,  as  godfather,  he  takes  the  loathed 
name  of  Samuel.  He  prefers  to  sign  himself  Adolphus  ; 
he  is  popularly  styled  Dolly.  For  his  present  existence 
he  relies  ostensibly  on  his  salary  as  an  assistant  in  the 
house  of  a  London  tradesman  in  a  fashionable  way  of 
business.  Mr.  Latham,  his  employer,  has  made  a  con- 
siderable fortune,  less  by  his  shop  than  by  discounting  the 
bills  of  his  customers,  or  of  other  borrowers  whom  the 
loan  draws  into  the  net  of  the  custom.  Mr.  Latham 
connives  at  the  sporting  tastes  of  Dolly  Poole.  Dolly 
has  often  thus  been  enabled  to  pick  up  useful  pieces  of 
information  as  to  the  names  and  repute  of  such  denizenti 
of  the  sporting  world  as  might  apply  to  Mr.  Latham  for 
temporary  accommodation.  Dolly  Poole  has  many  sport- 
ing friends ;  he  has  also  many  debts.  He  has  been  a 
dupe,  he  is  now  a  rogue  ;  but  he  wants  decision  of  cha^*- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITU    IT?  9 

acter  to  put  into  practice  many  valuable  ideas  tliat  Lis 
experience  of  dupe  and  his  development  into  rogue 
suggest  to  bis  ambition.  Still,  however,  now  and  then, 
whenever  a  shabby  trick  can  be  safely  done  he  is  what  he 
calls  "lucky."  He  has  conceived  a  prodigious  admira- 
tion for  Jasper  Losely,  one  cause  for  which  will  be  ex- 
plained in  the  dialogue  about  to  be  recorded  ;  another 
cause  for  which  is  analogous  to  that  loving  submission 
w^ith  which  some  ill-conditioned  brute  acknowledges  a 
master  in  the  hand  that  has  thrashed  it.  For  at  Losely's 
first  appearance  at  the  convivial  meeting  just  concluded, 
being  nettled  at  the  imperious  airs  of  superiority  which 
that  roysterer  assumed,  mistaking  for  effeminacy  Jasper's 
elaborate  dandyism,  and  not  recognizing  in  the  bravo's 
elegant  proportions  the  tiger-like  strength  of  which,  in 
truth,  that  tiger-like  suppleness  should  have  warned  him, 
Dolly  Poole  provoked  a  quarrel,  and  being  himself  a 
Btout  fellow,  nor  unaccustomed  to  athletic  exercises,  began 
to  spar ;  the  next  moment  he  was  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  full  sprawl  on  the  floor  ;  and,  two  minutes  afterw^ard, 
the  quarrel  made  up  by  conciliating  banqueters,  with 
every  bone  in  his  skin  seeming  still  to  rattle,  he  was 
generously  blubbering  out  that  he  never  bore  malice,  and 
shaking  hands  with  Jasper  Losely  as  if  he  had  found  a 
benefactor.     But  now  to  the  dialogue. 

Jasper.  "Yes,  Poole,  my  hearty,  as  you  say,  that 
fellow  trumping  my  best  club  lost  me  the  last  rubier 
There's  no  certainty  in  whist,  if  one  has  a  spoon  for  a 
partner." 


iO  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Poole.  "  No  certainty  in  every  rubber,  but  next  to 
cerjtainty  iu  the  long  run,  when  a  man  plays  as  well  as  you 
do,  Mr.  Loselj.  Your  winnings  to-night  must  have  been 
pretty  large,  though  you  had  a  bad  partner  almost  every 
hand  ;  — pretty  large  —  eh  ?  " 

Jasper  (carelessly).  "Nothing  to  talk  of — a  few 
ponies ! " 

Poole.   "More  than  a  few;  I  should  know." 

Jasper.  "  Why  ?  You  did  not  play  after  the  first 
rubber." 

PooLE.  "  No,  wdien  I  saw  your  play  on  that  first 
rubber,  I  cut  out,  and  bet  on  you  ;  and  very  grateful  to 
you  I  am.  Still  you  would  win  more  with  a  partner  who 
understood  your  game." 

The  shrewd  Dolly  paused  a  moment,  and  leaning 
significantly  on  Jasper's  arm,  added,  in  a  half  whisper, 
"I  do;  it  is  a  French  one." 

Jasper  did  not  change  color,  but  a  quick  rise  of  the 
eyebrow,  and  a  slight  jerk  of  the  neck,  betrayed  some 
little  surprise  or  uneasiness  ;  however,  he  rejoined  without 
hesitation  —  "  French,  ay  !  In  France  there  is  more  dash 
in  playing  out  trumps  than  there  is  with  English  players." 

"And  with  a  player  like  you,"  said  Poole,  still  in  a  half 
whisper,   "more  trumps  to  play  out." 

Jasper  turned  round  sharp  and  short ;  the  hard,  crue'j 
expression  of  his  mouth,  little  seen  of  late,  came  back  to 
it.  Poole  recoiled,  and  his  bones  began  again  to  ache 
"  I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you,  Mr.  Losely,  but  to  cau- 


WHAT    WILL     HE    DO     WITH    IT?  11 

"  Caution  ! " 

"  There  were  two  knowing  coves,  who,  if  they  had  not 
been  so  drunk,  would  not  have  lost  their  money  without 
a  row,  and  they  would  have  seen  how  they  lost  it ;  they 
are  sharpers  —  you  served  them  right  —  don't  be  angry 
with  me.  You  want  a  partner  —  so  do  I ;  you  play  better 
than  I  do,  but  I  play  well ;  you  shall  have  two-thirds  of 
our  winnings,  and  when  you  come  to  town  I'll  introduce 
you  to  a  pleasant  set  of  young  fellows  —  green." 

Jasper  mused  a  moment.  "  You  know  a  thing  or  two, 
I  see.  Master  Poole,  and  we'll  discuss  the  whole  subject 
after  breakfast.  Arn't  you  hungry  ?  —  No  I  —  I  am  I 
Hillo  !  who's  that  ?  " 

His  arm  was  seized  by  Mr.  Rugge.  "  She^s  gone  — 
fled  ! "  gasped  the  manager,  breathless.  "  Out  of  the 
lattice  —  fifteen  feet  high  —  not  dashed  to  pieces  — 
vanished ! " 

"  Go  on  and  order  breakfast,"  said  Losely  to  Mr.  Poole, 
who  was  listening  too  inquisitively.  He  drew  the  manager 
away  "  Can't  you  keep  your  tongue  in  your  head  before 
strangers  ?  the  girl  is  gone  !  " 

"  Out  of  the  lattice,  and  fifteen  feet  high  !  " 

"Any  sheets  left  hanging  out  of  the  lattice  ? " 

"Sheets!     No." 

"  Then  she  did  not  go  without  help  —  somebody  must 
have  thrown  up  to  her  a  rope-ladder  —  nothing  so  easy 
—  done  it  myself  scores  of  times  for  the  descent  of  '  maids 
wh )  love  the  moon,'  Mr.  Rugge.  But  at  her  age  there 
\s  not  a  moon  —  at  least  there  is  not  a  man  in  the  moon  j 


12  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

one  must  dismiss,  then,  the  idea  of  a  rope-ladder  —  too 
precocious.  But  are  you  quite  sure  she  is  gone  ?  not 
hiding  in  some  cupboard?  Sacref  —  very  odd.  Have 
you  seen  Mrs.  Crane  about  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  just  come  from  her  ;  she  thinks  that  villain  Waife 
must  have  stolen  her.  But  I  want  you,  Sir,  to  come  with 
me  to  a  magistrate." 

"  Magistrate  !  I  —  why  ?  —  nonsense  —  set  the  police 
to  work." 

"  Your  deposition  that  she  is  your  lawful  child,  law- 
fully made  over  to  me,  is  necessary  for  the  Inquisition  — 
I  mean  Police." 

"  Hang  it,  what  a  bother  I  I  hate  magistrates,  and  all 
belonging  to  them.  "Well,  I  must  breakfast ;  I'll  see  to  it 
afterward.    Oblige  me  by  not  calling  Mr.  Waife  a  villain 

—  good  old  fellow  in  his  way." 
"  Good  !     Powers  above  I  " 

"  But  if  he  took  her  off,  how  did  he  get  at  her  ?  It  must 
have  been  preconcerted." 

"  Ha  I  true.  But  she  has  not  been  suffered  to  speak  to 
a  soul  not  in  the  company  —  Mrs.  Crane  excepted." 

''  Perhaps  at  the  performance  last  night  some  signal 
was  given  ?  " 

"  But  if  Waife  had  been  there  I  should  have  seen  him  ; 
my  troop  would  have  known  him  ;  such  a  remarkable  face 

—  one  eye,  too." 

"Well,  well,  do  what  you  think  best.     I'll  call  on  you 
after  breakfast;  let  me  go  now.     Basial  basta/" 
Losely  wrenched  himself  from  the  managei,  and  strode 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  13 

off  to  the  inn  ;  then,  ere  joining  Poole,  he  sought  Mrs. 
Crane. 

"  This  going  before  a  magistrate,"  said  Losely,  "  to 
depose  that  I  have  made  over  my  child  to  that  black- 
guard showman  —  in  this  tovrn,  too  —  after  such  luck  as 
I  have  had,  and  where  bright  prospects  are  opening  on 
me,  h  most  disagreeable.  And  supposing,  when  we  have 
traced  Sophy,  she  should  be  really  with  the  old  man  — 
awkward!  In  short,  my  dear  friend,  my  dear  Bella" 
(Losely  could  be  very  coaxing  when  it  was  worth  his 
while),  "you  just  manage  this  for  me.  I  have  a  fellow 
in  the  next  room  waiting  to  breakfast;  as  soon  as  break- 
fast is  over  I  shall  be  off  to  the  race-ground,  and  so  shirk 
that  ranting  old  bore ;  you'll  call  on  him  instead,  and 
settle  it  somehow."  He  was  out  of  the  room  before  she 
could  answer. 

Mrs.  Crane  found  it  no  easy  matter  to  soothe  the  in- 
furiate manager,  when  he  heard  Losely  was  gone  to  amuse 
himself  at  the  race-course.  Nor  did  she  give  herself 
much  trouble  to  pacify  Mr.  Rugge's  anger,  or  assist  his 
investigations.  Her  interest  in  the  whole  affair  seemed 
over.  Left  thus  to  his  own  devices,  Rugge,  however, 
began  to  institute  a  sharp,  and  what  promised  to  be  an 
effective,  investigation.  He  ascertained  that  the  fugitive 
certainly  had  not  left  by  the  railway,  or  by  any  of  the 
public  conveyances;  he  sent  scouts  over  all  the  neigh- 
borhood ;  he  enlisted  the  sympathy  of  the  police,  who 
confidently  assured  him  that  they  had  "  a  net-work  over 
the  three  kingdoms ; "  no  doubt  they  have,  and  we  pa^ 
IL  — 2  2b 


14  WHATWILLHEDOWITHIT? 

for  it ;  but  the  meshes  are  so  large  that  anything  less 
than  a  whale  raust  be  silly  indeed  if  it  consent  to  be 
caught.  Kugge's  suspicions  were  directed  to  Waife  — 
he  could  collect,  however,  no  evidence  to  confirm  them. 
^0  person  answering  to  Waife's  description  had  been 
seen  in  the  town.  Once,  indeed,  Rugge  was  close  on  the 
right  scent ;  for,  insisting  upon  Waife's  one  eye  and  his 
possession  of  a  white  dog,  he  was  told  by  several  witnesses 
that  a  man  blind  of  two  eyes,  and  led  by  a  black  dog, 
had  been  close  before  the  stage,  just  previous  to  the  per- 
formance. But  then  the  clown  had  spoken  to  that  very 
man ;  all  the  Thespian  company  had  observed  him  ;  all 
of  them  had  known  Waife  familiarly  for  years  ;  and  all 
deposed  that  any  creature  more  unlike  to  Waife  than  the 
blind  man  could  not  be  turned  out  of  Nature's  workshop. 
But  where  was  that  blind  man  ?  They  found  out  the 
wayside  inn  in  which  he  had  taken  a  lodging  for  the 
night ;  and  there  it  was  ascertained  that  he  had  paid  for 
his  room  beforehand,  stating  that  he  should  start  for  the 
race-course  early  in  the  morning.  Rugge  himself  set  out 
to  the  race-course  to  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone — catch 
Mr.  Losely  —  examine  the  blind  man  himself. 

He  did  catch  Mr.  Losely,  and  very  nearly  caught 
something  else  —  for  that  gentleman  was  in  a  ring  of 
noisy  horsemen,  mounted  on  a  hired  hack,  and  loud  as 
the  noisiest.  When  Rugge  came  up  to  his  stirrup,  and 
began  his  harangue,  Losely  turned  his  hack  round  with 
60  sudden  an  appliance  of  bit  and  spur  that  the  animal 
lashed  out,  and  its  heel  w^ent  within  an  inch  of  the  mana- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  15 

ger's  cheek-bone.  Before  Rugge  could  recover  Losely 
was  in  a  hand  gallop.  But  the  blind  man  !  Of  course 
Bugge  did  not  find  him  ?  You  are  mistaken  ;  he  did. 
The  blind  man  was  there,  dog  and  all.  The  manager 
spoke  to  him,  and  did  not  know  him  from  Adam. 

Xor  have  you  or  I,  my  venerated  readers,  any  right 
whatsoever  to  doubt  whether  Mr.  Rugge  could  be  so 
stolidly  obtuse.  Granting  that  blind  sailor  to  be  the 
veritable  William  Waife  — William  Waife  was  a  man  of 
genius,  taking  pains  to  appear  an  ordinary  mortal.  And 
the  anecdotes  of  Munden,  or  of  Bamfylde  Moore  Carew, 
suffice  to  tell  us  how  Protean  is  the  power  of  transforma- 
tion in  a  man  whose  genius  is  mimetic.  But  how  often 
does  it  happen  to  us,  venerated  readers,  not  to  recognize  a 
man  of  genius,  even  when  he  takes  no  particular  pains  to 
escape  detection  !  A  man  of  genius  may  be  for  ten  years 
our  next-door  neighbor  —  he  may  dine  in  company  with 
us  twice  a  week  —  his  face  may  be  as  familiar  to  our  eyes 
as  our  arm-chair  —  his  voice  to  our  ears  as  the  click  of 
our  parlor-clock  —  yet  we  are  never  more  astonished  than 
when  all  of  a  sudden,  some  bright  day,  it  is  discovered 
that  our  next-door  neighbor  is  —  a  man  of  genius.  Did 
you  ever  hear  tell  of  the  life  of  a  man  of  genius,  but  what 
there  were  numerous  witnesses  who  deposed  to  the  fact, 
that  until,  perfidious  dissembler,  he  flared  up  and  set  the 
Thames  on  fire,  they  had  never  seen  any  thing  in  him  — 
an  odd  creature,  perhaps  a  good  creature  —  probably  a 
poor  creature  —  But  a  Man  of  Genius  !  They  would  as 
soon  have  suspected  him  of  being  the  Cham  of  Tartary  I 


16  WHAT    WILL    HE    TO    WITH    IT? 

Nay,  candid  readers,  are  there  not  some  of  you  who  re- 
fuse to  the  last  to  recognize  the  man  of  genius,  till  he  has 
paid  his  penny  to  Charon,  and  his  passport  to  immortal- 
ity has  been  duly  examined  by  the  custom-house  officers 
of  Styx  I  When  one  half  the  world  drag  forth  that  same 
next-door  neighbor,  place  him  on  a  pedestal,  and  have  him 
cried,  "  0  yez  !  0  yez  I  Found  a  man  of  genius  I  Public 
property  —  open  to  inspection  !  "  does  not  the  other  half 
the  world  put  on  its  spectacles,  turn  up  its  nose,  and  cry, 
"  That  a  man  of  genius,  indeed  !  Pelt  him  ! — pelt  him  !  " 
Then  of  course  there  is  a  clatter,  what  the  vulgar  call  "  a 
shindy,"  round  the  pedestal.  Squeezed  by  his  believers, 
shied  at  by  his  scoffers,  the  poor  man  gets  horribly 
mauled  about,  and  drops  from  the  perch  in  the  midst  of 
the  row.  Then  they  shovel  him  over,  clap  a  great  stone 
on  his  relics,  wipe  their  foreheads,  shake  hands,  comprom- 
ise the  dispute,  the  one  half  the  world  admitting  that 
though  he  was  a  genius,  he  was  still  an  ordinary  man  ; 
the  other  half  allowing  that  though  he  was  an  ordinary 
man,  he  was  still  a  genius.  And  so  on  to  the  next 
pedestal  with  its  "Hie  stet,"  and  the  next  great  stone 
with  its  "Hie  jacet." 

The  manager  of  the  Grand  Theatrical  Exhibition 
gazed  on  the  blind  sailor,  and  did  not  know  him  from 
A  dam  I 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  11 


CHAPTER   IX. 

The  aboriginal  Man-eater,  or  Pocket-Cannibal,  is  susceptible  of  the 
retiuing  iuflueuces  of  Civilization.  He  decorates  his  lair  with 
the  skins  of  his  victims;  he  adorns  his  person  with  the  spoils  of 
those  whom  he  devours.  Mr.  Losely  introduced  to  Mr.  Poole's 
friends — dresses  for  dinner  ;  and,  combining  elegance  with  appe- 
tite, eats  them  up. 

Elated  with  the  success  which  had  rewarded  his  talents 
for  pecuniary  speculation,  and  dismissing  from  his  mind 
all  thoughts  of  the  fugitive  Sophy  and  the  spoliated 
Rugge,  Jasper  Losely  returned  to  London  in  company 
with  his  new  friend,  Mr.  Poole.  He  left  Arabella  Crane 
to  perform  the  same  journey,  unattended  ;  but  that  grim 
lady,  carefully  concealing  any  resentment  at  such  want  of 
gallantry,  felt  assured  that  she  should  not  be  long  in  Lon- 
don without  being  honored  by  his  visits. 

In  renewing  their  old  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Crane  had 
contrived  to  establish  over  Jasper  that  kind  of  influence 
which  a  vain  man,  full  of  schemes  that  are  not  to  be  told 
to  all  the  world,  but  which  it  is  convenient  to  discuss 
with  some  confidential  friend  who  admires  himself  too 
highly  not  to  respect  his  secrets,  mechanically  yields  to  a 
woman  whose  wits  are  superior  to  his  own. 

It  is  true  that  Jasper,  on  his  return  to  the  metropolis, 
was  not  magnetically  attracted  toward  Poddon  Place; 
nay,  days  and  even  weeks  elapsed,  and  Mrs.  Crane  was 
2*  B 


18  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

not  gladdened  hj  his  presence.  But  she  knew  that  her 
influence  was  only  suspended  —  not  extinct.  The  body 
attracted  was  for  the  moment  kept  from  the  body  attract- 
ing by  the  abnormal  weights  that  had  dropped  into  its 
pockets.  Restore  the  body  thus  temporarily  counter- 
poised to  its  former  lightness,  and  it  would  turn  to  Pod« 
don  Place  as  the  needle  to  the  Pole.  Meanwhile,  ob- 
livious of  all  such  natural  laws,  the  disloyal  Jasper  had 
fixed  himself  as  far  from  the  reach  of  the  magnet  as  from 
Bloomsbury's  remotest  verge  is  St.  James's  animated 
center.  The  apartment  he  engaged  was  showy  and  com- 
modious. He  added  largely  to  his  wardrobe  —  his  dres- 
sing-case—  his  trinket-box.  Nor,  be  it  here  observed, 
was  Mr.  Losely  one  of  those  beauish  brigands  who  wear 
tawdry  scarfs  over  soiled  linen,  and  paste  rings  upon  un- 
washed digitals.  To  do  him  justice,  the  man,  so  stony- 
hearted to  others,  loved  and  cherished  his  own  person 
with  exquisite  tenderness,  lavished  upon  it  delicate  atten- 
tions, and  gave  to  it  the  very  best  he  could  afford.  He 
was  no  coarse  debauchee,  smelling  of  bad  cigars  and 
ardent  spirits.  Cigars,  indeed,  were  not  among  his  vices 
(at  worst  the  rare  peccadillo  of  a  cigarette) — spirit-drink- 
ing was  ;  but  the  monster's  digestion  was  still  so  strong, 
that  he  could  have  drunk  out  a  gin  palace,  and  you  would 
only  have  sniffed  the  jasmin  or  heliotrope  on  the  dainty 
cambric  that  wiped  the  last  drop  from  his  lips.  Had  his 
Boul  been  a  tenth  part  as  clean  as  the  form  that  belied  it, 
Jasper  Losely  had  been  a  saint  !  His  apartments  secured, 
his  appearance  thus  revised   and  embellished,  Jasper'^ 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  19 

next  care  was  an  equipage  in  keeping ;  he  hired  a  smart 
cabriolet  with  a  high-stepping  horse,  and,  to  go  behind 
it,  a  groom  whose  size  had  been  stunted  in  infancy  by 
provident  parents  designing  him  to  earn  his  bread  in  the 
Btables  as  a  light-weight,  and  therefore  mingling  his  mo- 
ther's milk  with  heavy  liquors.  In  short,  Jasper  Losely 
set  up  to  be  a  buck  about  town ;  in  that  capacity  Dolly 
Poole  iutroduccd  him  to  several  young  gentlemen  who 
combined  commercial  vocations  with  sporting  tastes ; 
they  could  not  but  participate  in  Poole's  admiring  and 
somewhat  envious  respect  for  Jasper  Losely.  There  was 
indeed  about  the  vigorous  miscreant  a  great  deal  of  false 
brilliancy.  Deteriorated  from  earlier  youth  though  the 
beauty  of  his  countenance  might  be,  it  was  still  unde- 
niably handsome  ;  and  as  force  of  muscle  is  beauty  in 
itself  in  th^  eyes  of  young  sporting  men,  so  Jasper  daz- 
zled many  a  gracilis  puer,  who  had  the  ambition  to  be- 
come an  athlete,  with  the  rare  personal  strength  which, 
as  if  in  the  exuberance  of  animal  spirits,  he  would  some- 
times condescend  to  display,  by  feats  that  astonished  the 
curious  and  frightened  the  timid  —  such  as  bending  a 
poker  or  horse-shoe,  between  hands  elegantly  white  nor 
unadorned  with  rings  —  or  lifting  the  weight  of  Samuel 
Dolly  by  the  waistband,  and  holding  him  at  arm's-length, 
with  u  playful  bet  of  ten  to  one  that  he  could  stand  by 
the  fire-place  and  pitch  the  said  Samuel  Dolly  out  of  the 
open  window.  To  know  so  strong  a  man,  so  fine  an 
animal,  was  something  to  boast  of  I  Then,  too,  if  Jasper 
had  a  false  brilliancy,  he  had  also  a  false  bonhommie  ;  it 


20  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

was  true  that  he  was  somewhat  imperious,  swaggering, 
bullying  —  but  he  was  also  ofiP-hand  and  jocund;  and  as 
you  knew  him,  that  sidelong  look,  that  defying  gait  (look 
and  gait  of  the  man  whom  the  '''K)rld  cuts),  wore  away. 
In  fact,  he  had  got  into  a  world  which  did  not  cut  him, 
and  his  exterior  was  improved  by  the  atmosphere.. 

Mr  Losely  professed  to  dislike  general  society.  Draw- 
ing-rooms were  insipid  ;  clubs  full  of  old  fogies.  "  I  aci 
for  life,  my  boys,"  said   Mr.  Losely : 

"  '  Can  sorrow  from  the  goblet  flow, 
Or  pain  from  Beauty's  eye  ? '  " 

Mr.  Losely,  therefore,  his  hat  on  one  side,  lounged  into 
the  saloons  of  theaters,  accompanied  by  a  cohort  of  juve- 
nile admirers,  their  hats  on  one  side  also,  and  returned  to 
the  pleasantest  little  suppers  in  his  own  apartment. 
There  "the  goblet"  flowed  —  and  after  the  goblet,  cigars 
for  some,  and  a  rubber  for  all. 

So  puissant  Losely's  vitality,  and  so  blessed  by  the 
stars  his  luck,  that  his  form  seemed  to  wax  stronger  and 
his  purse  fuller  by  this  "life."  No  wonder  he  was  all  for 
a  life  of  that  kind  ;  but  the  slight  beings  who.  tried  to 
keep  up  with  him  grew  thinner  and  thinner,  and  poorer 
and  poorer;  a  few  weeks  made  theircheeks  spectral  and 
their  pockets  a  dismal  void.  Then,  as  some  dropped  off 
from  sheer  inanition,  others  whom  they  had  decoyed  by 
their  praises  of  "  Life"  and  its  hero,  came  into  the  magic 
circle  to  fade  and  vanish  in  their  turn. 

In  a  space  of  time  incredibly  brief  not  a  whist-playei 
was  left  upon  the  field  ;  the  victorious  I/osely  had  trumped 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  21 

out  the  last  1  Some  few,  whom  Nature  had  endowed 
more  liberally  than  Fortune,  still  retained  strength  enough 
to  sup  —  if  asked  ; 

'♦But  none  who  came  to  sup  remained  to  play." 

"  Plague  en  it,"  said  Losely  to  Poole,  as  one  afternoon 
they  were  dividing  the  final  spoils.  "  Your  friends  are 
mightily  soon  cleaned  out ;  could  not  even  get  up  double 
dummy,  last  night ;  and  we  must  hit  on  some  new  plan 
for  replenishing  the  coffers  I  You  have  rich  relations ; 
can't  I  help  you  to  make  them  more  useful? " 

Said  Dolly  Poole,  who  was  looking  exceedingly  bilious, 
and  had  become  a  martyr  to  chronic  headache,  "  My  re- 
lations are  prigs !  Some  of  them  give  me  the  cold 
shoulder,  others  —  a  great  deal  of  jaw.  But  as  for  tin,  I 
might  as  well  scrape  a  flint  for  it.  My  uncle  Sam  is  more 
anxious  about  my  sins  than  the  other  codgers,  because 
he  is  my  godfather,  and  responsible  for  my  sins,  I  sup- 
pose ;  and  he  says  he  will  put  me  in  the  way  of  being  re- 
spectable.    My  head's  splitting — " 

"  Wood  does  split  till  it  is  seasoned,"  answered  Losely. 
"  Good  fellow,  uncle  Sam  I  He'll  put  you  in  the  way 
of  tin;  nothing  else  makes  a  man  respectable." 

"  Yes  —  so  he  says  ;  a  girl  with  money  —  " 

"A  wife  —  tin  canister  1  Introduce  me  to  her,  and 
Bhe  shall  be  tied  to  you." 

Samuel  Dolly  did  not  appear  to  relish  the  idea  of  such 
an  introduction.  "  I  have  not  been  introduced  to  her 
myself,"  said  he.  "  But  if  you  advise  me  to  be  spliced, 
why  don't  you  get  spliced  yourself  ?  a  handsome  fellow 
like  you  can  be  at  no  loss  for  an  heiress." 


22  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"  Heiresses  are  the  most  horrid  cheats  in  the  world," 
said  Losely  :  "  there  is  always  some  father,  or  uncle,  or 
fusty  Lord  Chancellor  whose  consent  is  essential,  and  not 
to  be  had.  Heiresses  in  scores  have  been  over  head  and 
ears  in  love  with  me.  Before  I  left  Paris,  I  sold  their 
locks  of  hair  to  a  wig-maker  —  three  great  trunksful. 
Honor  bright.  But  there  were  only  two  whom  I  could 
have  safely  allowed  to  run  away  with  me  ;  and  they  were 
so  closely  watched,  poor  things,  that  I  was  forced  to 
leave  them  to  their  fate  —  early  graves!  Don't  talk  to 
me  of  heiresses,  Dolly,  I  have  been  the  victim  of  heiresses. 
But  a  rich  widow  is  an  estimable  creature.  Against 
widows,  if  rich,  I  have  not  a  word  to  say ;  and  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  there  is  a  widow  whom  I  suspect  I  have  fasci- 
nated, and  whose  connection  I  have  a  particular  private 
reason  for  deeming  desirable  !  She  has  a  whelp  of  a 
son,  who  is  a  spoke  in  my  wheel  —  were  I  his  father-in- 
law,  would  not  I  be  a  spoke  in  his  ?  I'd  teach  the  boy 
*Zi/e,'  Dolly."  Here  all  trace  of  beauty  vanished  from 
Jasper's  face,  and  Poole,  staring  at  him,  pushed  away 
his  chair.  "But"  —  continued  Losely,  regaining  his 
more  usual  expression  of  levity  and  boldness  —  "But  I 
am  not  yet  quite  sure  what  the  widow  has,  besides  her 
son,  in  her  own  possession ;  we  shall  see.  Meanwhile,  ia 
there  —  /lo  chance  of  a  rubber  to-night?" 

**  None  1  unless  you  will  let  Brown  and  Smith  play 
upon  tick." 

*  Pooh  I  but  there's  Robinson,  he  has  an  aunt  he  can 
borrow  from  ? " 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  23 

"  Robinson  !  spitting  blood,  with  an  attack  of  delirium 
tremens/ -^ you.  have  done  for  him." 

"  Can  sorrow  from  the  goblet  flow  ? "  said  Losely, 
"Well,  I  suppose  it  can  —  when  a  man  has  no  coats  to 
his  stomach  ;  but  you  and  I,  Dolly  Poole,  have  stomachs 
thick  as  pea-jackets,  and  proof  as  gutta  percha." 

Poole  forced  a  ghastly  smile,  while  Losely,  gayly 
springing  up,  swept  his  share  of  booty  into  his  pockets, 
slapped  his  comrade  on  the  back,  and  said  —  "  Then,  if 
the  mountain  will  not  come  to  Mohammed,  Mohammed 
must  go  the  mountain  I  Hang  whist,  and  up  with  rouge- 
et-noir/  I  have  an  infallible  method  of  winning — only, 
it  requires  capital.  You  will  club  your  cash  with,  mine, 
and  I'll  play  for  both.  Sup  here  to-night,  and  we'll  go 
to  the hell  afterward." 

Samuel  Dolly  had  the  most  perfect  confidence  in  his 
friend's  science  in  the  art  of  gambling,  and  he  did  not, 
therefore,  dissent  from  the  proposal  made.  Jasper  gave 
a  fresh  touch  to  his  toilet,  and  stepped  into  his  cabriolet. 
Poole  cast  on  him  a  look  of  envy,  and  crawled  to  his 
lodging — too  ill  for  his  desk,  and  with  a  strong  desire 
to  take  to  his  bed. 


24  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Is  there  a  heart  that  never  loved 
Nor  felt  soft  woman's  sigh  ?  " 

If  there  be  such  a  heart,  it  is  not  in  the  breast  of  a  Pocket-Canni* 
bal.  Your  true  Man-eater  is  usually  of  an  amorous  tempera- 
ment: he  can  be  indeed  sufficiently  fond  of  a  lady  to  eat  her  up, 
Mr.  Losely  makes  the  acquaintance  of  a  widow.  For  farther 
particulars  inquire  within. 

The  dignified  serenity  of  Gloucester  Place,  Portman 
Square,  is  agitated  by  the  intrusion  of  a  new  inhabitant. 
A  house  in  that  favored  locality,  which  had  for  several 
months  maintained  "the  solemn  stillness  and  the  dread 
repose"  which  appertain  to  dwellings  that  are  to  be  let 
upon  lease,  unfurnished,  suddenly  started  into  that  exube- 
rant and  aggressive  life  which  irritates  the  nerves  of  its 
peaceful  neighbors.  The  bills  have  been  removed  from 
the  windows  —  the  walls  have  been  cleaned  down  and 
pointed  —  the  street-door  repainted  a  lively  green — ■ 
workmen  have  gone  in  and  out.  The  observant  ladies 
(single  ones)  in  the  house  opposite,  discover,  by  the  help 
of  a  telescope,  that  the  drawing-rooms  have  been  new 
papered,  canary-colored  ground  —  festoon  borders,  and 
that  the  mouldings  of  the  shutters  have  been  gilt.  Gilt 
shutters !  that  looks  ominous  of  an  ostentatious  and 
party-giving  tenant. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  25 

Then  carts  full  of  furniture  have  stopped  at  the  door— 
^rpets,  tables,  chairs,  beds,  wardrobes — all  seemingly  new, 
And  in  no  inelegant  taste,  have  been  disgorged  into  the  hall. 
It  has  been  noticed,  too,  that  every  day  a  lady  of  slight 
figure  and  genteel  habiliments  has  come,  seemingly  to  in- 
spect progress  —  evidently  the  new  tenant.  Sometimes 
she  comes  alone  ;  sometimes  with  a  dark-eyed  handsome 
lad,  probably  her  son.  Who  can  she  be  ?  what  is  she  ? 
what  is  her  name  ?  her  history  ?  has  she  a  right  to  settle 
in  Gloucester  Place,  Portman  Square  ?  The  detective 
police  of  Loudon  is  not  peculiarly  vigilant ;  but  its  de- 
fects are  supplied  by  the  voluntary  efforts  of  unmarried 
ladies.  The  new-comer  was  a  widow  ;  her  husband  had 
been  in  the  army ;  of  good  family  ;  but  a  mauvais  sujet ; 
she  had  been  left  in  straitened  circumstances  with  an  only 
son.  It  was  supposed  that  she  had  unexpectedly  come 
into  a  fortune  —  on  the  strength  of  which  she  had  removed 
from  Pimlico  into  Gloucester  Place.  At  length  —  the 
preparations  completed  —  one  Monday  afternoon  the 
widow,  accompanied  by  her  son,  came  to  settle.  The 
next  day  a  footman  in  genteel  livery  (brown  and  orange) 
appeared  at  the  door.  Then,  for  the  rest  of  the  week, 
the  baker  and  butcher  called  regularly.  On  the  following 
Sunday  the  lady  and  her  son  appeared  at  church. 

No  reader  will  be  at  a  loss  to  discover  in  the  new  tenant 
of  No  —  Gloucester  Place,  the  widowed  mother  of  Lionel 
Haughton.  The  letter  for  that  lady  which  Darrell  had 
intrusted  to  his  young  cousin,  had,  in  complimentary  and 
cordial  language,  claimed  the  right  to   provide  for  her 

IL  — 3 


26  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    ITf 

comfortable  and  honorable  subsistence  ;  and  announced 
that,  henceforth,  £800  a  year  would  be  placed  quarterly 
to  her  account  at  Mr/Darrell's  banker,  and  that  an  addi- 
tional sura  of  £1200  was  already  there  deposited  in  her 
name,  in  order  to  enable  her  to  furnish  any  residence  to 
which  she  might  be  inclined  to  remove.  Mrs.  Haughton, 
therewith,  had  removed  to  Gloucester  Place. 

She  is  seated  by  the  window  in  her  front  drawing-room 
—  surveying  with  proud  though  grateful  heart,  the  ele- 
gancies by  which  she  is  surrounded.  A  very  winning 
countenance — lively  eyes,  that  in  themselves  may  be  over- 
quick  and  petulant,  but  their  expression  is  chastened  by 
a  gentle  kindly  mouth  ;  and  over  the  whole  face,  the  atti- 
tude, the  air,  even  the  dress  itself,  is  diffused  the  unmis- 
takable simplicity  of  a  sincere,  natural  character.  No 
doubt  Mrs.  Haughton  has  her  tempers,  and  her  vanities, 
and  her  little  harmless  feminine  weaknesses ;  but  you 
could  not  help  feeling  in  her  presence  that  you  were  with 
an  affectionate,  warm-hearted,  honest,  good  woman.  She 
might  not  have  the  refinements  of  tone  and  manner  which 
stamp  the  high-bred  gentlewoman  of  convention  ;  she 
might  evince  the  deficiencies  of  an  imperfect  third-rate 
education  ;  but  she  was  saved  from  vulgarity  by  a  certain 
undefinable  grace  of  person  and  music  of  voice  —  even 
when  she  said  or  did  things  that  well-bred  people  do  not 
say  or  do ;  and  there  was  an  engaging  intelligence  in 
those  quick  hazel  eyes  that  made  you  sure  that  she  was 
sensible,  even  when  she  uttered  what  was  silly. 

Mrs.  Haugton  turned  from  the  interior  of  the  room  tp 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  21 

the  open  window.  She  is  on  the  look-out  for  hor  son, 
who  has  gone  to  call  on  Colonel  Morley,  and  who  ought 
to  be  returned  by  this  time.  She  begins  to  get  a  little 
fidgety — somewhat  cross.  While  thus  standing  and  thus 
watchful,  there  comes  thundering  down  the  street  a  high- 
stepping-horse  —  bay,  with  white  legs  —  it  whirls  on  a 
cabriolet  —  blue,  with  vermilion  wheels  —  two  hands,  in 
yellow  kid  gloves,  are  just  seen  under  the  hood.  Mrs. 
Haughton  suddenly  blushes  and  draws  in  her  head.  Too 
late  !  the  cabriolet  has  stopped  —  a  gentleman  leans  for- 
ward, takes  off  his  hat,  bows  respectfully.  "  Dear,  dear  I " 
murmurs  Mrs.  Haughton,  "  I  do  think  he  is  going  to  call ; 
some  people  are  born  to  be  tempted  —  my  temptations 
have  been  immense  !  He  is  getting  out  —  he  knocks  —  I 
can't  say,  now,  that  I  am  not  at  home  —  very  awkward  I 
I  wish  Lionel  were  here  !  What  does  he  naean  —  neglect- 
ing his  own  mother,  and  leaving  her  a  prey  to  tempters?" 
While  the  footman  is  responding  to  the  smart  knock 
of  the  visitor,  we  will  explain  how  Mrs.  Haughton  had 
incurred  that  gentleman's  acquaintance.  In  one  of  her 
walks  to  her  new  house  while  it  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
decorators,  her  mind  being  much  absorbed  in  the  consi- 
deration whether  her  drawing-roon  curtains  should  be 
chintz  or  tabouret — just  as  she  was  crossing  the  street, 
she  was  all  but  run  over  by  a  gentleman's  cabriolet.  Tlie 
horse  was  hard-mouthed,  going  at  full  speed.  The  driver 
pulled  up  just  in  time ;  but  the  wheel  grazed  her  dress, 
and  though  she  ran  back  instinctively,  yet,  when  she  wag 
safe  on  the  pavement,  the  fright  overpowered  her  nerves, 


28  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?- 

and  Gne  clung  to  the  street-post  almost  fainting.  Two  or 
three  passers-by  humanely  gathered  round  her ;  and  the 
driver,  looking  back,  and  muttering  to  himself — "Not 
bad  looking  —  neatly  dressed  —  lady-like  —  French  shawl 
—  may  have  tin  —  worth  while,  perhaps  !  "  gallantly  de- 
scended and  hastened  to  offer  apologies,  with  a  respectful 
hope  that  she  was  not  injured. 

Mrs.  Haughton  answered  somewhat  tartly,  but  being 
one  of  those  good-hearted  women  who,  apt  to  be  rude, 
are  extremely  sorry  for  it  the  moment  afterward,  she 
wished  to  repair  any  hurt  to  his  feelings  occasioned  by 
her  first  impulse ;  and,  when,  renewing  his  excuses,  be 
offered  his  arm  over  the  crossing,  she  did  not  like  to  refuse. 
On  gaining  the  side  of  the  way  on  which  her  house  was 
situated,  she  had  recovered  suflficiently  to  blush  for  having 
accepted  such  familiar  assistance  from  a  perfect  stranger, 
and  somewhat  to  falter  in  returning  thanks  for  his  polite- 
ness. 

Our  gentleman,  whose  estimate  of  his  attractions  was 
not  humble,  ascribed  the  blushing  cheek  and  faltering 
voice  to  the  natural  effect  produced  by  his  appearance ; 
and  he  himself  admiring  very  much  a  handsome  bracelet 
on  her  wrist,  which  he  deemed  a  favorable  prognostic  of 
"  tin,"  he  watched  her  to  her  door,  and  sent  his  groom  in 
the  course  of  the  evening  to  make  discreet  inquiries  in  the 
neighborhood.  The  result  of  the  inquiries  induced  him 
to  resolve  upon  prosecuting  the  acquaintance  thus  begun. 
He  contrived  to  learn  the  hours  at  which  Mrs.  Haughton 
usually  visited  the  house,  and  to  pass  by  Gloucester  Place 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  29 

at  the  very  nick  of  time.  His  bow  was  recognizing,  re- 
spectful, interrogative  —  a  bow  that  asked  "how  much 
farther?"  But  Mrs.  Haughton's  bow  respondent  seemed 
to  declare  "  not  at  all  1 "  The  stranger  did  not  adventure 
more  that  day  ;  but  a  day  or  two  afterward  he  came  again 
into  Gloucester  Place  on  foot.  On  that  occasion  Mrs. 
Haughton  was  with  her  son,  and  the  gentleman  would  not 
seem  to  perceive  her.  The  next  day  he  returned,  she  was 
then  alone,  and  just  as  she  gained  her  door  he  advanced 

—  "I  beg  you  ten  thousand  pardons,  madam  ;  but  if  I  am 
rightly  informed,  I  have  the  honor  to  address  Mrs.  Charles 
Haughton ! " 

The  lady  bowed  in  surprise. 

"  Ah,  madam,  your  lamented  husband  was  one  of  my 
most  particular  friends." 

"  You  don't  say  so  I  "  cried  Mrs.  Haughton,  and  looking 
more  attentively  at  the  stranger.  There  was  in  his  dress 
and  appearance  something  that  she  thought  very  stylish 

—  a  particular  friend  of  Charles  Haughton's  was  sure  to 
be  stylish — to  be  a  man  of  the  first  water.  And  she  loved 
the  poor  Captain's  memory  —  her  heart  warmed  to  any 
"particular  friend  of  his." 

"Yes,"  resumed  the  gentleman,  noting  the  advantage 
he  had  gained,  "  though  I  was  considerably  his  junior,  we 
were  great  cronies  —  excuse  that  familiar  expression — in 
the  Hussars  together — " 

"  The  Captain  was  not  in  the  Hussars,  Sir  ;  he  was  in 
the  Guards." 

"  Of  course  he  was ;  but  1  was  saying  the  Hussars,  to- 
3*  2c 


30  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

getber  with  the  Guards,  there  were  some  very  fine  fellow3 
—  very  fine  —  he  was  one  of  them.  I  could  not  resist 
paying  my  respects  to  the  widowed  lady  of  so  fine  a 
fellow.  I  know  it  is  a  liberty,  ma'am,  but  'tis  my  way. 
People  who  know  me  well — and  I  have  a  large  acquaint- 
ance— are  kind  enough  to  excuse  my  way.  And  to  think 
that  villanous  horse,  which  I  had  just  bought  out  of  Lord 
Bolton's  stud — (200  guineas,  ma'am,  and  cheap) — should 
have  nearly  taken  the  life  of  Charles  Haughton's  lovely 
relict.  If  any  body  else  had  been  driving  that  brute,  I 
shudder  to  think  what  might  have  been  the  consequences  r 
but  I  have  a  wrist  of  iron.  Strength  is  a  vulgar  qualifi- 
cation—  very  vulgar  —  but  when  it  saves  a  lady  from 
perishing,  how  can  one  be  ashamed  of  it  ?  But  I  am  de 
taining  you.     Your  own  house,  Mrs.  Haughton  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir,  I  have  just  taken  it,  but  the  workmen  have 
not  finished.     I  am  not  yet  settled  here." 

"  Charming  situation  I  My  friend  left  a  son,  I  believe  ? 
In  the  army  already  ?  " 

"No,  Sir;  but  he  wishes  it  very  much.'* 
"Mr.  Darrell,  I  think,  could  gratify  that  wish." 
"  What !  you  know  Mr.  Darrell,  that  most  excellent, 
generous  man  ?     All  we  have  we  owe  to  him." 

The  gentleman  abruptly  turned  aside — wisely — for  his 
expression  of  face  at  that  praise  might  have  startled  Mrs. 
Haughton. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  him  once.  He  has  had  many  a  fee  out 
of  my  family.  Goodish  lawyer  —  cleverish  man  —  and 
rich  as  a  Jew.     I  should  like  to  see  my  old  friend's  son, 


WHAT     WILL    HE    1)0    WITH    IT?  31 

ma'am.  lie  must  be  monstrous  handsome  with  such 
parents  I " 

"  Oh,  Sir,  very  like  his  father.  I  shall  be  proud  to 
present  him  to  you." 

"  Ma'am,  I  thank  you.  I  will  have  the  honor  to 
call—" 

And  thus  is  explained  how  Jasper  Losely  has  knocked 
at  Mrs.  Haughton's  door  —  has  walked  up  her  stairs  — 
has  seated  himself  in  her  drawing-room,  and  is  now  edging 
his  chair,  somewhat  nearer  to  her,  and  throwing  into  his 
voice  and  looks  a  degree  of  admiration,  which  has  been 
sincerely  kindled  by  the. aspect  of  her  elegant  apartments. 

Jessica  Haughton  was  not  one  of  those  women,  if  such 
there  be,  who  do  not  know  when  a  gentleman  is  making 
up  to  them.  She  knew  perfectly  well,  that,  with  a  very 
little  encouragement,  her  visitor  would  declare  himself  a 
suitor.  Nor,  to  speak  truth,  was  she  quite  insensible  to 
his  handsome  person,  nor  quite  unmoved  by  his  flatteries. 
She  had  her  weak  points,  and  vanity  was  one  of  them. 
Kor  conceived  she,  poor  lady,  the  slightest  suspicion  that 
Jasper  Losely  was  not  a  personage  whose  attentions 
might  flatter  any  woman.  Though  he  had  not  even 
announced  a  name,  but,  pushing  aside  the  footman,  had 
oauntered  in  with  as  familiar  an  ease  as  if  he  had  been  a 
first  cousin ;  though  he  had  not  uttered  a  syllable  that 
could  define  his  station,  or  attest  his  boasted  friendship 
with  the  dear  defunct,  still  Mrs.  Haughton  implicitly 
believed  that  she  was  with  one  of  those  gay  Chiefs  of  Ton 
who  had  glittered  round  her  Charlie  in  the  earlier  mora- 


32  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

ing  of  his  life,  ere  he  had  sold  out  of  the  Guards,  and 
brought  himself  out  of  jail ;  a  lord,  or  an  honorable  at 
least,  and  was  even  (I  shudder  to  say)  revolving  in  her 
mind  whether  it  might  not  be  an  excellent  thing  for  her 
dear  Lionel  if  she  could  prevail  on  herself  to  procure  for 
him  the  prop  and  guidance  of  a  distinguished  and  brilliant 
father-in-law  —  rich,  noble,  evidently  good-natured,  sen- 
sible, attractive.  Oh  !  but  the  temptation  was  growing 
more  and  more  immense  !  when  suddenly  the  door  opened, 
and  in  sprang  Lionel,  crying  out,  "Mother,  dear,  the 
Colonel  has  come  with  me  on  purpose  to — " 

He  stopped  short,  staring  hard  at  Jasper  Losely.  That 
gentleman  advanced  a  few  steps,  extending  his  hand,  but 
came  to  an  abrupt  halt  on  seeing  Colonel  Morley's  figure 
now  filling  up  the  door-way.  Not  that  he  feared  recog- 
nition—  the  Colonel  did  not  know  him  by  sight,  but  he 
knew  by  sight  the  Colonel.  In  his  own  younger  day, 
when  lolling  over  the  rails  of  Rotten  Kow,  he  had 
enviously  noted  the  leaders  of  fashion  pass  by,  and 
Colonel  Morley  had  not  escaped  his  observation.  Colonel 
Morley,  indeed,  was  one  of  those  men  who  by  name  and 
repute  are  sure  to  be  known  to  all  who,  like  Jasper 
Losely  in  his  youth,  would  fain  know  something  about 
that  gaudy,  babbling,  and  remorseless  world  which,  like 
the  sun,  either  vivifies  or  corrupts,  according  to  the 
properties  of  the  object  on  which  it  shines.  Strange  to 
say,  it  was  the  mere  sight  of  the  real  fine  gentleman  that 
made  the  mock  fine  gentleman  shrink  and  collapse. 
Though  Jasper  Losely  knew  himself  to  be  still  called  a 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  33 

magnificent  man  —  one  of  royal  Nature's  Life-guardsmen 
—  though  confident  that  from  top  to  toe  his  habiliments 
could  defy  the  criticism  of  the  strictest  martinet  in  polite 
costume,  no  sooner  did  that  figure  —  by  no  means  hand- 
some, and  clad  in  garments  innocent  of  buckram,  but 
guilty  of  wrinkles — appear  on  the  threshold,  than  Jasper 
Losely  felt  small  and  shabby,  as  if  he  had  been  suddenly 
reduced  to  five  feet  two,  and  had  bought  his  coat  out  of 
an  old  clothesman's  bag. 

Without  appearing  even  to  see  Mr.  Losely,  the  Colonel, 
in  his  turn,  as  he  glided  past  him  toward  Mrs.  Haughton, 
had,  with  what  is  proverbially  called  the  corner  of  the 
eye,  taken  the  whole  of  that  impostor's  superb  personnel 
into  calm  survey,  had  read  him  through  and  through,  and 
decided  on  these  two  points  without  the  slightest  hesita- 
tion—  "a  lady-killer  and  a  sharper." 

Quick  as  breathing  had  been  the  effect  thus  severally 
produced  on  Mrs.  Haughton's  visitors,  which  it  has  cost 
so  many  words  to  describe,  so  quick  that  the  Colonel, 
without  any  apparent  pause  of  dialogue,  has  already  taken 
up  the  sentence  Lionel  left  uncompleted,  and  says,  as  he 
bows  over  Mrs.  Haughton's  hand,  "  Come  on  purpose  to 
claim  acquaintance  with  an  old  friend's  widow,  a  young 
friend's  mother." 

Mrs.  Haughton.  "I  am  sure.  Colonel  Morley,  I  am 
very  much  flattered.  And  you,  too,  knew  the  poor  dear 
Captain ;  'tis  so  pleasant  to  think  that  his  old  friends 
come  round  us  now.  This  gentleman,  also,  was  a  par- 
ticular friend  of  dear  Charles's." 

c 


34  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

The  Colonel  had  somewhat  small  eyes,  which  moved 
with  habitual  slowness.  He  lifted  those  eyes,  let  them 
drop  upon  Jasper  (who  still  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  with  one  hand  still  half-extended  toward  Lionel,) 
and  letting  the  eyes  rest  there  while  he  spoke,  repeated, 

"  Particular  friend  of  Charles  Haughton's  —  the  only 
one  of  his  particular  friends  whom  I  never  had  the  honor 
to  see  before." 

Jasper  who,  whatever  his  deficiency  in  other  virtues, 
certainly  did  not  lack  courage,  made  a  strong  effort  at 
self-possession,  and  without  replying  to  the  Colonel,  whose 
remark  had  not  been  directly  addressed  to  himself,  said, 
in  his  most  rollicking  tone  — "  Yes,  Mrs.  Haughton, 
Charles  was  my  particular  friend,  but"  —  lifting  his  eye- 
glass—  "but  this  gentleman  was,"  dropping  the  eye- 
glass negligently,  "  not  in  our  set,  I  suppose."  Then  ad- 
vancing to  Lionel,  and  seizing  his  hand,  "  I  must  in- 
troduce myself — the  image  of  your  father,  I  declare! 
I  was  saying  to  Mrs.  Haughton  how  much  I  should  like 
to  see  you  —  proposing  to  her,  just  as  you  came  in,  that 
we  should  go  to  the  play  together.  Oh,  ma'am,  you  may 
trust  him  to  me  safely.  Young  men  should  see  life." 
Here  Jasper  tipped  Lionel  one  of  those  knowing  winks 
with  which  he  was  accustomed  to  delight  and  in  snare  the 
young  friends  of  Mr.  Poole,  and  hurried  on  :  "  But  in  an 
innocent  way,  ma'am,  such  as  mothers  would  approve. 
We'll  fix  an  evening  for  it,  when  I  have  the  honor  to  call 
again.  Good-morning,  Mrs.  Haughton.  Your  hand 
again,  Sir  Cto  Lionel).  — Ah,  we  shall  be  great  friends,  I 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  35 

guess  I  You  must  let  me  take  you  out  in  my  cab  —  teach 
you  to  handle  the  ribbons,  eh  ?  'Gad  my  old  friend 
Charles  ivas  a  whip.  Ha  !  ha  !  Good-day,  good-day  ! " 
Not  a  muscle  had  moved  in  the  Colonel's  face  during 
Mr.  Losely's  jovial  monologue.  But  when  Jasper  had 
bcwed  himself  out,  Mrs.  Haughton  courtesying  and  ring- 
ing the  bell  for  the  footman  to  open  the  street-door,  the 
man  of  the  world  (and,  as  man  of  the  world,  Colonel 
Morley  was  consummate)  again  raised  those  small,  slow 
eyes  —  this  time  toward  her  face  —  and  dropped  the 
words  — 

"  My  old  friend's  particular  friend  is  —  not  bad-looking, 
Mrs.  Haughton  I  '^ 

"And  so  lively  and  pleasant,"  returned  Mrs.  Haughton, 
with  a  slight  rise  of  color,  but  no  other  sign  of  embarrass- 
ment.    "It  may  be  a  nice  acquaintance  for  Lionel." 

"  Mother ! "  cried  that  ungrateful  boy,  "  you  are  not 
speaking  seriously.  I  think  the  man  is  odious.  If  he 
were  not  my  father's  friend,  I  should  say  he  was  — " 

"What,  Lionel?"  asked  the  Colonel,  blandly  —  "was 
what  ?  " 

"Snobbish,  Sir." 

"  Lionel,  how  dare  you  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Haughton. 
"  What  vulgar  words  boys  do  pick  up  at  school.  Colonel 
Morely  ! " 

"  We  must  be  careful  that  they  do  not  pick  up  worse 
tlictu  words  when  they  leave  school,  my  dear  madam. 
Tou  will  forgive  me,  but  Mr  Darrell  has  so  expressly  — 


36  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

of  course,  with  your  permission  —  commended  this  young 
gentleman  to  my  responsible  "  care  and  guidance  —  so 
.openly  confided  to  me  his  views  and  intentions,  that 
perhaps  you  would  do  me  the  very  great  favor  not  to  force 
upon  him,  against  his  own  wishes,  the  acquaintance  of — 
that  very  good-looking  person." 

Mrs.  Haughton   pouted,   but   kept    down   her   rising 
temper.     The  Colonel  began  to  awe  her. 

"By-the-by,"  continued  the  man  of  the  world,  "may  I 
inquire  the  name  of  my  old  friend's  particular  friend  ?  " 

"  His  name  —  upon  my  word  I  really  don't  know  it. 
Perhaps  he  left  his  card  —  ring  the  bell,  Lionel." 

"  You  don't  know  his  name,  yet  you  know  him,  ma'am, 
and  would  allow  your  son  to  see  life  under  his  auspices  I 
I  beg  you  ten  thousand  pardons  ;  but  even  ladies  the  most 
cautious,  mothers  the  most  watchful,  are  exposed  to  —  " 
"Immense  temptations — that  is  —  to — to  —  " 
"I  understand  perfectly,  my  dear  Mrs.  Haughton.'* 
The  footman  appeared.     "  Did  that  gentleman  leave  a 
card  ?  "  . 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  Did  not  you  ask  his  name  when  he  entered  ?  " 
"Yes,  ma'am,  but  he  said  he  would  announce  himself." 
When  the  footman  had  withdrawn,  Mrs.  Haughton  ex- 
claimed, piteously,  "I  have  been  to  blame.  Colonel  —  I 
see  it.  But  Lionel  will  tell  you  how  I  came  to  know  the 
gentleman  —  the  gentleman  who  nearly  run  over  me, 
Lionel,  and  then  spoke  so  kindly  about  your  dear  father." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  3l 

"  Oh,  that  is  the  person !  I  supposed  so/'  cried 
Lionel,  kissing  his  mother,  who  was  inclined  to  burst  into 
tears.  "  I  can  explain  it  all  now.  Colonel  Morley.  Any- 
one who  says  a  kind  word  about  mj  father  warms  my 
mother's  heart  to  him  at  once.  Is  it  not  so,  mother 
dear  ?  " 

"And  long  be  it  so,"  said  Colonel  Morley,  with  grace- 
ful earnestness ;  "  and  may  such  be  my  passport  to  your 
confidence,  Mrs.  Haughton.  Charles  was  my  old  school- 
fellow—  a  little  boy  when  I  and  Darrell  were  in  the  sixth 
form  ;  and  pardon  me  if  I  add  that  if  that  gentleman  were 
ever  Charles  Haughton's  particular  friend,  he  could 
scarcely  have  been  a  very  wise  one.  For,  unless  his 
appearance  greatly  belie  his  years,  he  must  have  been 
little  more  than  a  boy  when  Charles  Haughton  left  Lionel 
fatherless." 

Here,  in  the  delicacy  of  tact,  seeing  that  Mrs.  Haugh- 
ton looked  ashamed  of  the  Jsubject,  and  seemed  aware  of 
her  imprudence,  the  Colonel  rose,  with  a  request — cheer- 
fully granted  —  that  Lionel  migtit  bo  alk  wed  to  come  to 
Ireakfast  with  him  the  next  iDo^-iiiA^ 


n 


38  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO'wiTII    IT? 


CHAPTER   XI. 

\  man  jf  the  world,  having  accepted  a  troublesome  charge,  coa' 
siders  "what  he  will  do  with  it ;  "  and  having  promptly  decided, 
is  sure,  first,  that  he  could  not  have  done  better;  and,  secondly, 
that  much  may  be  said  to  prove  that  he  could  not  have  done 
worse. 

Reserving  to  a  later  occasion  any  more  detailed  de- 
scription of  Colonel  Morley,  it  suffices  for  the  present  to 
say  that  he  was  a  man  of  a  very  fine  understanding,  as 
applied  to  the  special  world  in  which  he  lived.  Though 
no  one  had  a  more  numerous  circle  of  friends,  and  though 
with  many  of  those  friends  he  was  on  that  footing  of  fa- 
miliar intimacy  which  Darrell's  active  career  once,  and 
his  rigid  seclusion  of  late,  could  not  have  established  with 
any  idle  denizen  of  that  brilliant  society  in  which  Colonel 
Morley  moved  and  had  his  being,  yet  to  Alban  Morley's 
heart  (a  heart  not  easily  reached)  no  friend  was  so  dear 
as  Guy  Darrell.  They  had  entered  Eton  on  the  same 
day — left  it  the  same  day — lodged  while  there  in  the  same 
house  ;  and  though  of  very  different  characters,  formed 
one  of  those  strong,  imperishable,  brotherly  affections 
which  the  Fates  w^eave  into  the  very  woof  of  existence. 

Darrell's  recommendation  would  have  secured  to  any 
young  2^^otege  Colonel  Morley 's  gracious  welcj/z.e  and 
invaluable  advice.  But  both  as  Darrell's  acknowledged 
kinsman  and  as  Charles  Haughton's  son,  Lionel  called 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  39 

foiTii  his  kindliest  sentiments,  and  obtained  bis  most  sa- 
gaei<  IS  deliberations.  He  had  already  seen  the  boy 
severJ  times  before  waiting  on  Mrs.  Haughton,  deeming 
it  wo-ild  please  her  to  defer  his  visit  until  she  could  re 
ceive  Mm  in  all  the  glories  of  Gloucester  Place ;  and  he 
had  tiken  Lionel  into  high  favor,  and  deemed  him  worthy 
of  a  cr-nspicuous  place  in  the  world.  Though  Darrell,  ic 
his  letter  to  Colonel  Morley,  had  emphatically  distinguished 
the  pciition  of  Lionel,  as  a  favored  kinsman,  from  that 
of  a  presumptive  or  even  a  probable  heir,  yet  the  rich 
man  had  also  added  —  "■  But  I  wish  him  to  take  rank  as 
the  reprrsentative  to  the  Haughtons ;  and,  whatever  I 
may  do  with  the  bulk  of  my  fortune,  I  shall  insure  to  him- 
a  liberal  independence.  The  completion  of  his  education, 
the  adequate  allowance  to  him,  the  choice  of  a  profession, 
are  matters  in  which  I  entreat  you  to  act  for  yourself,  as 
if  you  were  his  guardian.  I  am  leaving  England — I  may 
be  abroad  for  years."  Colonel  Morley,  in  accepting  the 
responsibilities  thus  pressed  on  him,  brought  to  bear  upon 
his  charge  subtle  discrimination  as  well  as  conscientious 
anxiety. 

He  saw  that  Lionel's  heart  was  set  upon  the  military 
profession,  and  that  his  power  of  application  seemed 
lakewarm  and  desultory  when  not  cheered  and  con- 
centred by  enthusiasm,  and  would,  therefore,  fail  him 
if  directed  to  studies  which  had  no  immediate  reference  to 
the  objects  of  his  ambition.  The  Colonel  accordingly 
dismissed  the  idea  of  sending  him  for  three  years  to 
a  University.     Alban  Morley  summed   up   his   theories 


40  WHAT    WILL    HE    TO    WITH    IT? 

on  the  collegiate  ordeal  in  these  succinct  aphorisms: 
"  Nothing  so  good  as  a  University  education,  nor  worse 
than  a  University  without  its  education.  Better  throw  a 
youth  at  once  into  the  wider  sphere  of  a  capital,  provided 
you  there  secure  to  his  social  life  the  ordinary  checks  of 
good  company,  the  restraints  imposed  by  the  presence 
of  decorous  women,  and  men  of  grave  years  and  dignified 
repute,  than  confine  him  to  the  exclusive  society  of  youths 
of  his  own  age — the  age  of  wild  spirits  and  unreflecting 
imitation — unless  he  cling  to  the  safeguard  which  is  found 
in  hard  reading,  less  by  the  book-knowledge  it  bestows 
than  by  the  serious  and  preoccupied  mind  which  it  ab- 
stracts from  the  coarser  temptations." 

But  Lionel,  younger  in  character  than  in  years,  was 
too  boyish  as  yet  to  be  safely  consigned  to  those  trials 
of  tact  and  temper  which  await  the  neophyte  who  enters 
on  life  through  the  doors  of  a  mess-room.  His  pride 
was  too  morbid  —  too  much  on  the  alert  for  offence  ;  his 
frankness  too  crude,  his  spirit  too  untamed  by  the  in 
sensible  discipline  of  social  commerce. 

Quoth  the  observant  Man  of  the  World:  "Place  his 
honor  in  his  own  keeping,  and  he  will  carry  it  about  with 
him  on  full  cock,  to  blow  off  a  friend's  head  or  his  own 
before  the  end  of  the  first  month.  Huffy  —  decidedly 
huffy.  And  of  all  causes  that  disturb  regiments,  and  in- 
duce court-martials,  the  commonest  cause  is  a  huffy  lad  ! 
Pity  I  for  that  youngster  has  in  him  the  right  metal  — 
spirit  and  talent  that  should  make  him  a  first-rate  soldier. 
It  would  be  time  well  spent,  that  should  join  professionaJ 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  41 

studies  with  that  degree  of  polite  culture  which  gives 
dignity  and  cures  huffiness.  I  must  get  him  out  of  Lon- 
don, out  of  England  —  cut  him  off  from  his  mother's 
apron-strings,  and  the  particular  friends  of  his  poor 
father  who  prowl  unannounced  into  the  widow's  drawing 
room.  He  shall  go  to  Paris  —  no  better  place  to  learn 
military  theories,  and  be  civilized  out  of  huffy  disposi- 
tions. No  doubt  my  old  friend,  the  chevalier,  who  has 
the  art  strategic  at  his  finger-ends,  might  be  induced  to 
take  him  en  pension,  direct  his  studies,  and  keep  him  out 
of  harm's  way.  I  can  secure  to  him  the  entree  into  the 
circles  of  the  rigid  old  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  where 
manners  are  best  bred,  and  household  ties  most  respected. 
Besides,  as  I  am  so  often  at  Paris  myself,  I  shall  have 
him  under  my  eye  ;  and  a  few  years  there  spent  in  com- 
pleting him  as  man  may  bring  him  nearer  to  that  mar- 
shal's baton  which  every  recruit  should  have  in  his  eye, 
than  if  I  started  him  at  once,  a  raw  boy,  unable  to  take 
care  of  himself  as  an  ensign,  and  unfitted,  save  by  me- 
chanical routine,  to  take  care  of  others,  should  he  live  to 
buy  the  grade  of  a  colonel." 

The  plans  thus  promptly  formed  Alban  Morley  briefly 
explained  to  Lionel,  when  the  boy  came  to  breakfast  in 
Curzon  Street,  requesting  him  to  obtain  Mrs.  Haughton's 
acquiescence  in  that  exercise  of  tlie  discretionary  powers 
with  which  he  had  been  invested  by  Mr.  Darrell.  To 
Lionel  the  proposition  that  commended  the  very  studies 
to  which  his  tastes  directed  his  ambition,  and  placed  his 
4* 


12  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

initiation  into  responsible  manhood  among  scenes  bright 
to  his  fancj,  because  new  to  his  experience,  seemed,  of 
course,  the  perfection  of  wisdom. 

Less  readily  pleased  was  poor  Mrs.  Haughton  when 
her  son  returned  to  communicate  the  arrangement,  back- 
ing a  polite  and  well-worded  letter  from  the  Colonel  with 
his  own  more  artless  eloquence.  Instantly  she  flew  off 
on  the  wing  of  her  "little  tempers."  "What  I  her  only 
son  taken  from  her  —  sent  to  that  horrid  Continent,  just 
when  she  was  so  respectably  settled  I  What  was  the  good 
of  money  if  she  was  to  be  parted  from  her  boy  ?  Mr. 
Darrell  might  take  the  money  back  if  he  pleased  —  she 
w^ould  write  and  tell  him  so.  Colonel  Morley  had  no 
feeling  ;  and  she  was  shocked  to  think  Lionel  was  in  such 
unnatural  hands.  She  saw  very  plainly  that  he  no  longer 
cared  for  her — a  serpent's  tooth,  etc.,  etc."  But  as  soon 
as  the  burst  was  over  the  sky  cleared,  and  Mrs.  Haugh- 
ton became  penitent  and  sensible.  Then  her  grief  for 
Lionel's  loss  was  diverted  by  preparations  for  his  depar- 
ture. There  was  his  wardrobe  to  see  to — a  patent  port- 
manteau to  purchase  and  to  fill.  And,  all  done,  the  last 
evening  mother  and  son  spent  together,  though  painful 
at  the  moment,  it  would  be  happiness  for  both  hereafter 
to  recall !  Their  hands  clasped  in  each  other  —  her  head 
leaning  on  his  young  shoulder — her  tears  kissed  so  sooth- 
ingly away.  And  soft  words  of  kindly,  motherly  counsel 
• — sweet  promises  of  filial  performance.  Ilappy,  thrice 
happy,  as  au  after  remembrance,  be  the  final  parting  be- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  43 

tween  hopeful  son  and  fearful  parent,  at  the  foot  of  that 
mystic  bridge  which  starts  from  the  threshold  of  Home 
— lost  in  the  dimness  of  the  far-opposing  shore  ! — bridge 
over  which  goes  the  boy  who  will  never  return  but  as  the 
man. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

The  Pocket-Cannibal  baits  his  wonnan's  trap  with  love-letters  — And 
a  ■widow  alluieil  steals  timidly  toward  it  from  under  the  weeds. 

Jasper  Losel\  is  beginning  to  be  hard  up  I  The  in- 
fallible calculation  at  rouge-et-noir  has  carried  off  all  that 
capital  which  had  accumulated  from  the  savings  of  the 
young  gentlemen  whom  Dolly  Poole  had  contributed  to 
his  exchequer.  Poole  himself  is  beset  by  duns,  and 
pathetically  observes  "that  he  has  lost  three  stone  in 
weight,  and  that  he  believes  the  calves  to  his  legs  are 
gone  to  enlarge  his  liver." 

Jasper  is  compelled  to  put  down  his  cabriolet  —  to  dis- 
charge his  groom — to  retire  from  his  fashionable  lodgings ; 
and  just  when  the  prospect  even  of  a  dinner  becomes  dim, 
he  bethinks  himself  of  Arabella  Crane,  and  remembers 
that  she  promised  him  £5,  nay,  £10,  which  are  still  due 
from  her.  He  calls  —  he  is  received  like  the  prodigal  son. 
Nay,  to  his  own  surprise,  he  finds  Mrs.  Crane  has  made 
her  house  much  more  inviting  —  the  drawing-rooms  are 
cleaned  up  ;  the  addition  of  a  few  easy  articles  of  furni- 
ture gives  them  quite  a  comfortable  air.     She  herself  has 


44  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Im])roved  in  costume  —  though  her  favorite  color  still 
remains  iron-gray.  She  informs  Jasper  that  she  fully 
expected  him — that  these  preparations  are  in  his  honor — 
that  she  has  engaged  a  v6ry  good  cook  —  that  she  hopes 
be  will  dine  with  her  when  not  better  engaged  ;  in  short, 
let  him  feel  himself  at  home  in  Poddon  Place. 

Jasper  at  first  suspected  a  sinister  design,  under  civili- 
ties that  his  conscience  told  him  were  unmerited  —  a 
design  to  entrap  him  into  that  matrimonial  alliance  which 
he  had  so  ungallantly  scouted,  and  from  which  he  still 
recoiled  with  an  abhorrence  which  man  is  not  justified  in 
feeling  for  any  connubial  partner  less  pretematurally 
terrific  than  the  Witch  of  Endor  or  the  Bleeding  Nun  ! 

But  Mrs.  Crane  quickly  and  candidly  hastened  to  dispel 
his  ungenerous  apprehensions.  "  She  had  given  up,"  she 
said,  "all  ideas  so  preposterous — love  and  wedlock  were 
equally  out  of  her  mind.  But  ill  as  he  had  behaved  to 
her,  she  could  not  but  feel  a  sincere  regard  for  him  —  a 
deep  interest  in  his  fate.  He  ought  still  to  make  a  brilliant 
marriage  —  did  that  idea  not  occur  to  him  ?  She  might 
help  him  there  with  her  woman's  wit.  In  short,"  said 
Mrs.  Crane,  pinching  her  lips,  "in  short,  Jasper,  I  feel 
for  you  as  a  mother.     Look  on  me  as  such  ! " 

That  pure  and  afi'ectionate  notion  wonderfully  tickled, 
and  egregiously  delighted  Jasper  Losely  "  Look  on 
you  as  a  mother  I  I  will,"  said  he,  with  emphasis.  "  Best 
of  creatures  !  "  And  though  in  his  own  mind  he  had  not 
a  doubt  that  she  still  adored  him  (not  as  a  mother),  he 
believed  it  was  a  disinterested,  devoted  adoration,  such 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  45 

BS  the  beautiful  brute  really  had  inspired  more  than  once 
in  his  abominable  life.  Accordingly,  he  moved  into  the 
neighborhood  of  Poddon  Place,  contenting  himself  with 
a  second-floor  bedroom,  in  a  house  recommended  to  him 
by  Mrs.  Crane,  and  taking  his  meals  at  his  adopted 
mother's  with  filial  familiarity  She  expressed  a  desire  to 
make  Mr.  Poole's  acquaintance  —  Jasper  hastened  to  pre- 
sent that  worthy.  Mrs.  Crane  invited  Samuel  Dolly  to 
dine  one  day,  to  sup  the  next ;  she  lent  him  £3  to  redeem 
his  dress-coat  from  pawn,  and  she  gave  him  medicaments 
for  the  relief  of  his  headache. 

Samuel  Dolly  venerated  her  as  a  most  superior  woman 
— envied  Jasper  such  a  "mother."  Thus  easily  did  Ara- 
bella Crane  possess  herself  of  the  existence  of  Jasper 
Losely.  Lightly  her  fingers  closed  over  it  —  lightly  as 
the  fisherman's  over  the  captivated  trout.  And  whatever 
her  generosity,  it  was  not  carried  to  imprudence.  She 
just  gave  to  Jasper  enough  to  bring  him  within  her 
power  —  she  had  no  idea  of  ruining  herself  by  larger 
supplies  —  she  concealed  from  him  the  extent  Of  her  in- 
come (which  was  in  chief  part  derived  from  house  rents), 
the  amount  of  her  savings,  even  the  name  of  her  banker. 
And  if  he  carried  off  to  the  rouge-et-noir  table  the  coins 
he  obtained  from  her,  and  came  for  more,  Mrs.  Crane  put 
on  the  look  of  a  mother  incensed  —  mild  but  awful  —  and 
scolded  as  mothers  sometimes  can  scold.  Jasper  Losely 
began  to  be  frightened  at  Mrs.  Crane's  scoldings.  And 
he  had  not  that  power  over  her,  which,  though  arrogated 
by  a  lover,  is  denied  to  an  adopted  son.     His  mind,  re- 

2d 


46  WHAT     WILL     HE     DO     WITH    IT? 

lieved  from  the  habitual  distraction  of  the  gaming-table 
—  for  which  the  resource  was  wanting  —  settled  with 
redoubled  ardor  on  the  image  of  Mrs.  Haughton.  He 
had  called  at  her  house  several  times  since  the  fatal  day 
on  which  he  had  met  there  Colonel  Morley,  but  Mrs^ 
Haughton  was  never  at  home.  And  as,  when  the  answer 
was  given  to  him  by  the  footman,  he  had  more  than  once, 
on  crossing  the  street,  seen  herself  through  the  window, 
it  was  clear  that  his  acquaintance  was  not  courted. 
Jasper  Losely,  by  habit,  was  the  reverse  of  a  pertinacious 
and  troublesome  suitor — not.  Heaven  knows,  from  want 
of  audacity,  but  from  excess  of  self-love.  Where  a  Love- 
lace so  superb  condescended  to  make  overtures,  a  Cla- 
rissa so  tasteless  as  to  decline  them  deserved  and  expe- 
rienced his  contempt.  Besides,  steadfast  and  prolonged 
pursuit  of  any  object,  however  important  and  attractive, 
was  alien  to  the  levity  and  fickleness  of  his  temper.  But 
in  this  instance  he  had  other  motives  than  those  on  the 
surface  for  unusual  perseverance. 

A  man  like  Jasper  Losely  never  reposes  implicit  con- 
fidence in  any  one.  He  is  garrulous,  indiscreet  —  lets 
out  much  that  Machiavel  would  have  advised  him  not  to 
disclose  ;  but  he  invariably  has  nooks  and  corners  in  his 
mind  which  he  keeps  to  himself.  Jasper  did  not  confide 
to  his  adopted  mother  his  designs  upon  his  intended  bride. 
But  she  knew  them  through  Poole,  to  whom  he  was  more 
frank  ;  and  when  she  saw  him  looking  over  her  select  and 
severe  library — taking  therefrom  the  Polite  Letter-  Writer 
and  the  Elegant  Extracts,  Mrs.  Crane  divined  at  once 


-WHAT     ^Y1\  L    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  47 

that  Jasper  Losely  was  meditating  the  eflfent  of  epistolary 
seduction  upon  the  Widow  of  Gloucester  Place. 

Jasper  did  not  write  a  bad  love-letter  in  the  florid 
style.  He  had  at  his  command,  in  especial,  certain  poet- 
ical quotations,  the  effect  of  which  repeated  experience 
had  assured  him  to  be  as  potent  upon  the  femaler  breast 
as  the  incantations  or  Carmina  of  the  ancient  sorcery. 
The  following  in  particular: 

"  Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed, 
I  ne'er  could  injure  you." 

Another  —  generally  to  be  applied  when  confessing  that 
his  career  had  been  interestingly  wild,  and  would,  if  pity 
were  denied  him,  be  pathetically  short : 

"When  he  -who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 
Of  his  faults  and  his  follies  behind." 

Armed  with  these  quotations  —  many  a  sentence  from 
the  Polite  better- Writer  or  the  Elegant  Extracts  —  and 
a  quire  of  rose-edged  paper,  Losely  sat  down  to  Ovidian 
composition.  But  as  he  approached  the  close  of  Epistle 
the  First,  it  occurred  to  him  that  a  signature  and  address 
were  necessary.  The  address  not  difficult.  He  could 
give  Poole's  (hence  his  confidence  to  that  gentleman)  — 
Poole  had  a  lodging  in  Bury  Street,  St.  James,  a  fashion- 
able locality  for  single  men.  But  the  name  required 
more  consideration.  There  were  insuperable  objections 
against  signing  his  own  to  any  person  who  might  be  in 
communication  with  Mr.  Darrell  —  a  pity,  for  there  was 
a  g0(^d  old  family  of  the  name  of  Losely.  A  name  of 
aristocratic  sound  might  indeed  be  readily  borrowed  from 


48  WIIATTVILLIIEDOWITHIT. 

any  lordly  proprietor  thereof  without  asking  a  formal 
consent.  But  this  loan  was  exposed  to  danger.  Mrs. 
Haughton  might  very  naturally  mention  such  name,  as 
borne  by  her  husband's  friend,  to  Colonel  Morley,  and 
Colonel  Morley  would  most  probably  know  enough  of  the 
connections  and  relations  of  any  peer  so  honored  to  say, 
''  There  is  no  such  Greville,  Cavendish,  or  Talbot."  But 
Jasper  Losely  was  not  without  fertility  of  invention  and 
readiness  of  resource.  A  grand  idea,  worthy  of  a  master^ 
and  proving  that,  if  the  man  had  not  been  a  rogue  in  grain, 
he  could  have  been  reared  into  a  very  clever  politician, 
flashed  across  him.  He  would  sign  himself  "  Smith."  No- 
body could  say  there  is  no  such  Smith  ;  nobody  could  say 
that  a  Smith  might  not  be  a  most  respectable,  fashionable, 
highly-connected  man.  There  are  Smiths  who  are  mil- 
lionaires—  Smiths  who  are  large-acred  squires  —  substan- 
tial baronets  —  peers  of  England,  and  pillars  of  the  State 
. —  members  even  of  the  British  Cabinet.  You  can  no 
more  question  a  man's  right  to  be  a  Smith  than  his  right 
to  be  a  Briton  ;  and  wide  as  the  diversity  of  rank,  lineage, 
virtue,  and  genius  in  Britons,  is  the  diversity  in  Smiths. 
But  still  a  name  so  generic  often  affects  a  definite  pre- 
cursor. Jasper  signed  himself  "J.  Courtenay  Smith." 
He  called,  and  left  Epistle  the  First  with  his  own  kid- 
gloved  hand,  inquiring  first  if  Mrs.  Haughton  were  at 
home,  and,  responded  to  in  the  negative,  this  time,  he 
asked  for  her  son.  "Her  son  was  gone  abroad  with 
Colonel  Morley."  Jasper,  though  sorry  to  lose  present 
hold  over  the  boy,  was  consoled   at  learning?   that   the 


WHAT    WILL     HE    DO    WITH    IT?  49 

colonel  was  off  the  ground.  More  sanguine  ot  success, 
he  glanced  up  at  the  window,  and,  sure  that  Mrs.  Haugh* 
ton  was  there,  though  he  saw  her  not,  lifted  his  hat  with 
as  melancholy  an  expression  of  reproach  as  he  could 
throw  into  his  face. 

The  villain  could  not  have  found  a  moment  in  Mrs. 
Haughton's  widowed  life  so  propitious  to  his  chance  of 
success.  In  her  lodging-house  at  Piralico,  the  good  lady 
had  been  too  incessantly  occupied  for  that  idle  train  of 
reverie  in  which,  the  poets  assure  us,  that  Cupid  finds 
leisure  to  whet  his  arrows,  and  take  his  aim.  Had  Lionel 
still  been  by  her  side  —  had  even  Colonel  Morley  been  in 
town  —  her  affection  for  the  one,  her  awe  of  the  other, 
would  have  been  her  safeguards.  But  alone  in  that  fine 
new  house  —  no  friends,  no  acquaintances  as  yet  —  no 
dear  visiting  circle  on  which  to  expend  the  desire  of  talk 
and  the  zest  for  innocent  excitement  that  are  natural  to 
ladies  of  an  active  mind  and  a  nervous  temperament,  the 
sudden  obtrusion  of  a  suitor  so  respectfully  ardent  —  oh, 
it  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the  temptation  was  immense  I 

And  when  that  note,  so  neatly  folded  —  so  elegantly 
sealed  — lay  in  her  irresolute  hand,  the  widow  could  not 
but  feel  that  she  was  still  young,  still  pretty ;  and  her 
heart  flew  back  to  the  day  when  the  linen-draper's  fair 
daughter  had  been  the  cynosure  of  the  provincial  High 
Street  —  when  young  officers  had  lounged  to  and  fro  the 
pavement,  looking  in  at  her  window  —  when  ogles  and 
notes  had  alike  beset  her,  and  the  dark  eyes  of  the  irresis- 
tible   Charlie  Haughton  had  first   taught  her  pulse  to 

11.-5  D 


60  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

trcpible.  And  in  "her  hand  lies  the  letter  of  Charlie 
Hanghton's  particular  friend.  She  breaks  the  seal.  She 
reads  —  a  declaration  ! 

Five  letters  in  five  days  did  Jasper  write.  In  the 
course  of  those  letters,  he  explains  away  the  causes  for 
suspicion  which  Colonel  Morley  had  so  ungenerously 
suggested.  He  is  no  longer  anonymous  —  he  is  J.  Cour- 
tenay  Smith.  He  alludes  incidentally  to  the  precocious 
age  in  which  he  had  become  "lord  of  himself,  that  herit- 
age of  woe."  This  accounts  for  his  friendship  with  a 
man  so  much  his  senior  as  the  late  Charlie.  He  confesses 
that,  in  the  vortex  of  dissipation,  his  hereditary  estates 
have  disappeared  ;  but  he  has  still  a  genteel  indepen- 
dence;  and  with  the  woman  of  his  heart,  etc.,  etc.  He 
had  never  before  known  what  real  love  was,  etc.  "  Pleas- 
ure had  fired  his  maddening  soul ;  "  "  but  the  heart  —  the 
heart  been  lonely  still."  He  entreated  only  a  persoral 
interview,  even  though  to  be  rejected  —  scorned.  Still, 
when  "he  who  adored  her  had  left  but  the  name,"  etc., 
etc.  Alas  !  alas  !  as  Mrs.  Haughton  put  down  Epistle 
the  Fifth,  she  hesitated  ;  and  the  woman  who  hesitates  in 
such  a  case,  is  sure,  at  least  —  to  write  a  civil  answer. 

Mrs.  Haughton  wrote  but  three  lines  —  still  they  w^re 
civil  —  and  conceded  an  interview  for  the  next  day,  though 
implying  that  it  was  but  for  the  purpose  of  assuring  Mr. 
J.  Courtenay  Smith  in  person,  of  her  unalterable  fidelity 
to  the  shade  of  his  lamented  friend. 

In  t  'gh  ^\qq  Jasper  showed  Mrs.  Haughton's  answer  to 
Dolly  Poole,  and  began    seriously  to   speculate   on  'he 


TVnATWILLnEDOWITIIIT?  51 

probable  amount  of  the  widow's  income,  and  the  value  of 
her  movables  in  Gloucester  Place.  Thence  he  repaired  to 
Mrs.  Crane  :  and,  emboldened  by  the  hope  forever  to  es- 
cape from  maternal  tutelage,  braved  her  scoldings,  and 
asked  for  a  couple  of  sovereigns.  He  was  sure  that  he 
should  be  in  luck  that  night.  She  gave  to  him  the  sum 
and  spared  the  scoldings.  But  as  soon  as  he  was  gone, 
conjecturing,  from  the  bravado  of  his  manner,  what  had 
really  occurred,  Mrs.  Crane  put  on  her  bonnet  and  went 
out. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

Unhappy  is  the  man  who  puts  his  trust  in  —  a  woman. 

Late  that  evening  a  lady,  in  a  black  vail,  knocked  at 
No.  —  Gloucester  Place,  and  asked  to  see  Mrs.  Haughton 
on  urgent  business.  She  was  admitted.  She  remained 
but  five  minutes. 

The  next  day,  when  "gay  as  a  bridegroom  prancing 
to  his  bride,"  Jasper  Losely  presented  himself  at  the 
widow's  door,  the  servant  placed  in  his  hand  a  packet, 
and  informed  him  bluffly  that  Mrs.  Haughton  had  gone 
out  of  town.  Jasper  with  difficulty  suppressed  his  rage, 
opened  the  packet  —  his  own  letters  returned,  with  these 
words  —  "Sir,  your  name  is  not  Courtenay  Smith.  If 
you  trouble  me  again  I  shall  apply  to  the  police."  Nerer 
from  female  hand  had  Jasper  Losely's  pride  received  such 


52  WHAT     WILL     HE     DO    WITH    IT? 

a  slap  on  its  face.  He  was  literally  stunned.  Mechanic 
cally  he  hastened  to  Arabella  Crane;  and  having  no 
longer  any  object  in  concealment,  but,  on  the  contrary,  a 
most  urgent  craving  for  sympathy,  he  poured  forth  his 
indignation  and  wrongs.  No  mother  could  be  more  con- 
solatory than  Mrs.  Crane.  She  soothed,  she  flattered, 
she  gave  him  an  excellent  dinner ;  after  which  she  made 
him  so  comfortable  —  what  with  an  easy-chair  and  com- 
plimentary converse,  that,  when  Jaspir  rose  late  to  return 
to  his  lodging,  he  said  :  "  After  all,  if  I  had  been  ugly 
and  stupid,  and  of  a  weakly  constitution,  I  should  have 
been  of  a  very  domestic  turn  of  mind." 


CHAPTER   XIY. 

No  Author  ever  drew  a  character,  consistent  to  human  nature,  but 
what  he  was  forced  to  ascribe  to  it  many  inconsistencies. 

Whether  moved  by  that  pathetic  speech  of  Jasper's, 
or  by  some  other  impule  not  less  feminine,  Arabella 
Crane  seemed  suddenly  to  conceive  the  laudable  and  ar- 
duous design  of  reforming  that  portentous  sinner.  She 
had  some  distant  relations  in  London,  whom  she  very 
rarely  troubled  with  a  visit,  and  who,  had  she  wanted  any 
thing  from  them,  would  have  shut  their  doors  in  her  face  ; 
but  as,  on  the  contrary,  she  was  well  off,  single,  and  might 
leave  her  money  to  whom  she  pleased,  the  distant  rela- 
tions were  always  warm  in  manner,  and  prodigal  in  theii 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  53 

offers  of  service.  The  next  day  she  repaired  to  one  of 
these  kinsfolk  —  a  person  in  a  large  way  of  business  — 
and  returned  home  with  two  great  books  in  white  sheep- 
skin. And  when  Losely  looked  in  to  dine,  she  said,  in 
the  suavest  tones  a  tender  mother  can  address  to  an 
amiable  truant,  "  Jasper,  you  have  great  abilities  —  at  the 
gaming-table  abilities  are  evidently  useless  —  your  forte 
is  calculation — you  were  always  very  quick  at  that.  I 
have  been  fortunate  enough  to  procure  you  an  easy  piece 
of  taskwork,  for  which  you  will  be  liberally  remunerated. 
A  friend  of  mine  wishes  to  submit  these  books  to  a 
regular  accountant ;  he  suspects  that  a  clerk  has  cheated 
him,  but  he  cannot  tell  how  or  where.  You  know  ac- 
counts thoroughly  —  no  one  better  —  and  the  pay  will  be 
ten-guineas." 

Jasper,  though  his  early  life  had  rendered  familiar  and 
facile  to  him  the  science  of  book-keeping  and  double- 
entry,  made  a  grimace  at  the  revolting  idea  of  any  honest 
labor,  however  light  and  well  paid.  But  ten  guineas 
were  an  immense  temptation,  and  in  the  evening  Mrs. 
Crane  coaxed  him  into  the  task. 

Neglecting  no  feminine  art  to  make  the  lawless  nomad 
feel  at  home  under  her  roof,  she  had  provided  for  his  ease 
and  comfort  morocco  slippers  and  a  superb  dressing-robe, 
in  material  rich,  in  color  becoming.  Men,  single  or 
marital,  are  accustomed  to  connect  the  idea  of  home  with 
dressing-gown  and  slippers,  especially  if,  after  dinner, 
they  apply  (as  Jasper  Losely  now  applied)  to  occupa- 
dons,  in  which  the  brain  is  active,  the  form  in  repose 
5* 


54  MHAT    WILL    HE    DO    "WITH    IT? 

What  achievement,  literary  or  scientific,  was  ever  accom* 
piished  by  a  student  strapped  to  unyielding  boots,  and 
"cabined,  cribbed,  confined,"  in  a  coat  that  fits  him  like 
wax  ?  As  robed  in  the  cozy  garment  which  is  consecra- 
ted to  the  sacred  familiar  Lares,  the  relaxing,  handsome 
ruffian  sate  in  the  quiet  room,  bending  his  still  regular 
profile  over  the  sheepskin  books  —  the  harmless  pen  in 
that  strong  well-shaped  hand,  Mrs.  Crane  watched  him 
with  a  softening  countenance.  To  bear  him  company, 
she  had  actively  taken  herself  to  work  —  the  gold  thimble 
dragged  from  its  long  repose  —  marking  and  hemming, 
with  nimble  artistic  fingers,  new  cravats  for  the  adopted 
son  !  Strange  creature  is  Woman !  Ungrateful  and 
perfidious  as  that  sleek  tiger  before  her  had  often  proved 
himself — though  no  man  could  less  deserve  one  kindly 
sentimenl  in  a  female  heart  —  though  she  knew  that  he 
cared  nothing  for  her,  still  it  was  pleasing  to  know  that 
he  cared  for  nobody  else  —  that  he  was  sitting  in  the  same 
room  —  and  Arabella  Crane  felt  that  if  that  existence 
could  continue  she  could  forget  the  past,  and  look  con- 
tented toward  the  future.  Again  I  say,  strange  creature 
is  Woman  ! — and,  in  this  instance,  creature  more  strange, 
because  so  grim  I  But  as  her  eyes  soften,  and  her  fingers 
work,  and  her  mind  revolves  schemes  for  making  that 
lawless  wild  beast  an  innocuous,  tame  animal,  who  can 
help  feeling  for  and  with  grim  Arabella  Crane  ? 

Poor  woman  !  And  will  not  the  experiment  succeed  ? 
Three  evenings  does  Jasper  Losely  devote  to  this  sinless 
life  and  its  peaceful  occupation.     He  completes  his  task 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  55 

—  he  receives  the  ten  guiiieas.  (How  much  of  that  fee 
came  out  of  Mrs.  Crane's  privy  purse  ?)  He  detects 
three  mistakes,  which  justify  suspicion  of  the  book-keeper's 
integrity.  Set  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief!  He  is  praised 
for  acuteness,  and  promised  a  still  lighter  employment,  to 
be  still  better  paid.  He  departs,  declaring  that  he  will 
come  the  next  day,  earlier  than  usual  —  he  volunteers  an 
eulogium  upon  work  in  general  —  he  vows  that  evenings 
so  happy  he  has  not  spent  for  years  —  he  leaves  Mrs. 
Crane  so  much  impressed  by  the  hope  of  his  improve- 
ment, that  if  a  good  clergyman  had  found  her  just*  at  that 
moment,  she  might  almost  have  been  induced  to  pray. 

But  — 

"  Heu  quoties  fidem 
Mutatosque  deos  flebit ! " 

Jasper  Losely  returns  not,  neither  to  Poddon  Place  nor 
to  his  lodging  in  the  neighborhood.  Days  elapse  ;  still 
he  comes  not ;  even  Poole  does  not  know  where  he  hac 
gone ;  even  Poole  has  not  seen  him  I  But  that  latter 
worthy  is  now  laid  up  with  a  serious  rheumatic  fever  — 
confined  to  his  room  and  water-gruel.  And  Jasper 
Losely  is  not  the  man  to  intrude  hirasolf  on  the  privacy 
of  a  sick  chamber.  Mrs.  Crane,  more  benevolent,  visits 
Poole  —  cheers  him  up  —  gets  him  a  nurse  —  writes  to 
Uncle  Sam.  Poole  blesses  her.  He  hopes  that  Uncle 
Sam,  moved  by  the  spectacle  of  his  sick  bed,  will  say, 
"Don't  let  your  debts  fret  you  —  I  will  pay  them!" 
Whatever  her  disappointment  or  resentment  at  Jasper's 
thankless   and    mysterious   evasion,    Arabella    Crane   is 


56  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

calmly  confident  of  his  return.  To  her  servant,  Eridgett 
Greggs,  who  was  perhaps  the  sole  person  in  the  world 
who  entertained  afi'ection  for  the  lone,  gaunt  woman,  and 
who  held  Jasper  Losely  in  profound  detestation,  she  said, 
with  tranquil  sternness,  "  That  man  has  crossed  my  life, 
and  darkened  it.  He  passed  away,  and  left  Night  behind 
him.  He  has  dared  to  return.  He  shall  never  escape 
me  again  till  the  grave  yawn  for  one  of  us." 

"  But,  Lor'  love  you,  miss,  you  would  not  put  yourself 
in  the  power  of  such  a  black-hearted  villing  ?  " 

"  In  his  power  !  No,  Bridgett ;  fear  not,  he  must  be 
in  mine  —  sooner  or  later  in  mine  —  hand  and  foot. 
Patience  1 " 

As  she  was  thus  speaking  —  a  knock  at  the  door— 
"  It  is  he  —  I  told  you  so  —  quick  I " 

But  it  was  not  Jasper  Losely.     It  was  Mr.  Rugge. 


CHAPTER  XY. 

"When  God  wills,  all  winds  bring  rain."  —  Ancient  Proverb. 

The  manager  had  not  submitted  to  the  loss  of  his  pro- 
perty in  Sophy  and  £100,  without  taking  much  vain 
trouble  to  recover  the  one  or  the  other.  He  had  visited 
Jasper  while  that  gentleman  lodged  in  St.  James's,  but 
the  moment  he  hinted  at  the  return  of  the  £100,  Mr. 
Losely  opened  both  door  and  window,  and  requested  the 
manager  to   make   his   immediate   choice    of  the   two. 


WHAT    WILL     HE    DO    WITH    IT?  67 

Taking  the  more  usual  mode  of  exit,  Mr.  Rugge  vented 
his  just  indignation  in  a  lawyer's  letter,  threatening  Mr. 
Losely  with  an  action  for  conspiracy  and  fraud.  He  had 
also  more  than  once  visited  Mrs.  Crane,  who  somewhat 
soothed  him  by  allowing  that  he  had  been  very  badly 
used,  that  he  ought  at  least  to  be  repaid  his  money,  and 
promising  to  do  her  best  to  persuade  Mr.  Losely  to 
"behave  like  a  gentleman."  With  regard  to  Sophy  her- 
self, Mrs.  Crane  appeared  to  feel  a  profound  indifferance. 
In  fiict,  the  hatred  which  Mrs.  Crane  had  unquestionably 
conceived  for  Sophy  while  under  her  charge,  was  much 
diminished  by  Losely's  unnatural  conduct  toward  the 
child.  To  her  it  was  probably  a  matter  of  no  interest 
whether  Sophy  was  in  Rugge's  hands  or  Waife's  ;  enough 
for  her  that  the  daughter  of  a  woman  against  whose 
memory  her  fiercest  passions  were  enlisted  was,  in  either 
case,  so  far  below  herself  in  the  grades  of  the  social 
ladder. 

Perhaps  of  the  two  protectors  for  Sophy  —  Rugge  and 
"Waife  —  her  spite  alone  would  have  given  the  preference 
to  Waife.  He  was  on  a  still  lower  step  of  the  ladder  than 
the  itinerant  manager.  Nor,  though  she  had  so  mortally 
injured  the  forlorn  cripple  in  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Hartopp, 
had  she  any  deliberate  purpose  of  revenge  to  gratify 
against  him  !  On  the  contrary,  if  she  viewed  him  with 
contempt^  it  was  a  contempt  not  unmixed  with  pity.  It 
was  necessary  to  make  to  the  mayor  the  communications 
jhe  had  made,  or  that  worthy  magistrate  would  not  have 
surrendered  the   child  intrusted   to  him,   at  least  until 


58  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Waife's  return.  And  really  it  was  a  kindness  to  the  old 
man  to  save  him  both  from  an  agonizing  scene  with 
Jasper,  and  from  the  more  public  opprobrium  which  any 
resistance  on  his  part  to  Jasper's  authority,  or  any  alter- 
cation between  the  two,  would  occasion.  And  as  her 
main  object  then  was  to  secure  Losely's  allegiance  to  her, 
by  proving  her  power  to  be  useful  to  him,  so  Waifes,  and 
Sophys,  and  Mayors,  and  Managers,  were  to  her  but  as 
pawns  to  be  moved  and  sacrificed,  according  to  the  lead- 
ing strategy  of  her  gar^-^, 

Rugge  came  now,  agitated  and  breathless,  to  inform 
Mrs.  Crane  that  Waife  had  been  seen  in  London.  Mr. 
Rugge's  clown  had  seen  him,  not  far  from  the  Tower; 
but  the  cripple  had  disappeared  before  the  clown,  who 
was  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus,  had  time  to  descend. 
"And  even  if  he  had  actually  caught  hold  of  Mr.  "Waife," 
observed  Mrs.  Crane,  "what  then?  You  have  no  claim 
on  Mr.  Waife." 

"  But  the  Phenomenon  must  be  with  that  ravishing 
marauder,"  said  Rugge.  "  However,  I  have  set  a  minister 
of  justice,  that  is,  ma'am,  a  detective  police,  at  work  ;  and 
what  I  now  ask  of  you  is  simply  this — should  it  be 
necessary  for  Mr.  Losely  to  appear  with  me  before  the 
senate,  that  is  to  say,  ma'am,  a  metropolitan  police  court, 
in  order  to  prove  my  legal  property  in  my  own  bought 
and  paid-for  Phenomenon,  will  you  induce  that  bold,  bad 
man,  not  again  to  return  the  poisoned  chalice  to  my  lips  ?  " 

"I  do  not  even  know  where  Mr.  Losely  is—  perhaps 
Qot  in  London." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  59 

"Ma'am,  I  saw  him  last  niglit  at  the  theatef  — 
princess'.  I  was  in  the  shilling  gallery.  He  who  owes 
me  £100,  ma'am — ^he  in  a  private  box!" 

"Ah!  you  are  sure;  by  himself?" 

"With  a  lady,  ma'am  —  a  lady  in  a  shawl  from  Ingee. 
I  know  them  shawls.  My  father  taught  me  to  know  them 
in  early  childhood,  for  he  was  an  ornament  to  British 
commerce — a  broker,  ma'am  —  pawn  I  And,"  continued, 
Rugge,  with  a  withering  smile,  "  that  man  in  a  private 
box,  which  at  the  Princess'  costs  two  pounds  two,  and 
with  the  spoils  of  Ingee  by  his  side,  lifted  his  eye-glass 
and  beheld  ille  ;  me  in  the  shilling  gallery,  and  his  con- 
science did  not  say  '  should  we  not  change  places  if  I  paid 
that  gentleman  £100?'  Can  such  things  be,  and  over- 
come us,  ma'am,  like  a  summer-cloud,  without  our  special 
—  I  put  it  to  you,  ma'am  —  wonder  ?  " 

"  Oh,  with  a  lady,  was  he  !  "  exclaimed  Arabella  Crane ; 
her  wrath,  which,  while  the  manager  spoke,  gathered  fast 
and  full,  bursting  now  into  words  —  "His  ladies  shall 
know  the  man  who  sells  his  own  child  for  a  show ;  only 
find  out  where  the  girl  is,  then  come  here  again  before 
you  stir  further.  Oh,  with  a  lady  !  Go  to  your  detective 
policeman,  or,  rather,  send  him  to  me  ;  we  will  first  dis- 
cover Mr.  Losely's  address.  I  v/ill  pay  all  the  expenses. 
Rely  on  my  zeal,  Mr.  Rugge." 

Much  comforted,  the  manager  went  his  way.  He  had 
not  been  long  gone  before  Jasper  himself  appeared.  The 
traitur  entered  with  a  more  than  customary  bravado  of 
manner,  as  if  he  apprehended  a  scolding,  and  wa,«  pre- 


60  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

pared  to  face  it ;  but  Mrs.  Crane  neither  reproached  him 
for  his  prolonged  absence,  nor  expressed  surprise  at  his 
return.  With  true  feminine  duplicity  she  received  him  as 
if  nothing  had  happened.  Jasper,  thus  relieved,  became 
of  his  own  accord  apologetic  and  explanatory  ;  evidently 
he  wanted  something  of  Mrs.  Crane.  "  The  fact  is,  my 
dear  friend,"  said  he,  sinking  into  a  chair,  "that  the  day 
after  I  last  saw  you,  I  happened  to  go  to  the  General 
Post-ofl&ce  to  see  if  there  were  any  letters  for  me  —  you 
smile,  you  don't  believe  me.  Honor  bright  —  here  they 
are,"  and  Jasper  took  from  the  side-pocket  of  his  coat  a 
pocket-book  —  a  new  pocket-book  —  a  briMant  pocket- 
book —  fragrant  Russian  leather  —  delicately  embossed 
—  golden  clasps  —  silken  linings — jeweled  pencil-case  — 
malachite  penknife  —  an  arsenal  of  nicknacks  stored  in 
neat  recesses  ;  such  a  pocket-book  as  no  man  ever  gives 
to  himself.  Sardanapalus  would  not  have  given  that 
pocket-book  to  himself !  Such  a  pocket-book  never  comes 
to  you,  oh,  enviable  Lotharios,  save  as  tributary  keep- 
sakes from  the  charmers  who  adore  you  !  Grimly  the 
Adopted  Mother  eyed  that  pocket-book.  ^STever  had  she 
seen  it  before.  Grimly  she  pinched  her  lips.  Out  of  this 
dainty  volume  —  which  would  have  been  of  cumbrous 
size  to  a  slim  thread-paper  exquisite,  but  scarcely  bulged 
into  ripple  the  Atlantic  expanse  of  Jasper  Losely's 
magnificent  chest  —  the  monster  drew  forth  two  letters  on 
French  paper  —  foreign  post-marks.  He  replaced  them 
quickly,  only  suffering  her  eye  to  glance  at  the  address, 
and  continued  :  "  Fancy  I  that  purse-proud  Grand  Turk 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  61 

of  an  infidel,  thougli  he  would  not  believe  me,  has  been 
to  France  —  yes,  actually  to  *  *  *  *  *  —  making  inquiries 
evidently  with  reference  to  Sophy.  The  woman  who 
ought  to  have  thoroughly  converted  him  took  flight,  how- 
ever, and  missed  seeing  him.  Confound  her !  I  ought 
to  have  been  there.  So  I  have  no  doubt  for  the  present 
the  Pagan  remains  stubborn.  Gone  on  into  Italy,  I  hear ; 
doing  me,  violating  the  laws  of  nature,  and  roving  about 
the  world  with  his  own  solitary  hands  in  his  bottomless 
pockets,  like  the  Wandering  Jew  !  But,  as  some  slight 
set-off  in  my  run  of  iU-luck,  I  find  at  the  Post-office  a 
pleasanter  letter  than  the  one  which  brings  me  this  news : 
A  rich  elderly  lady,  who  has  no  family,  wants  to  adopt  a 
nice  child,  will  take  Sophy  ;  make  it  worth  my  while  to 
let  her  have  Sophy.  'Tis  convenient  in  a  thousand  ways 
to  settle  one's  child  comfortably  in  a  rich  house  —  esta- 
blishes rights,  subject,  of  course,  to  cheques  which  would 
not  afiTront  me  —  a  Father  1  But  the  first  thing  requisite 
is  to  catch  Sophy  ;  'tis  in  that  I  ask  your  help  —  you  are 
so  clever.  Best  of  creatures !  what  could  I  do  without 
you  ?  As  you  say,  whenever  I  want  a  friend  I  come  to 
you  — Bella!" 

Mrs.  Crane  surveyed  Jasper's  face  deliberately.  It  is 
strange  how  much  more  readily  women  read  the  thoughts 
of  men  than  men  detect  those  of  women.  "  You  know 
where  the  child  is,"  said  she,  slowly. 

"  Well,  I  take  it  for  granted  she  is  with  the  old  man  j 
and  I  have  seen  him  —  seen  him  yesterday.' 

"  Go  on  ;  you  saw  him  —  where  ?  " 

l\-  ^ 


62  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"Near  Londor.  Bridge." 
What  business  could  you  possibly  have  in  that  direc- 
tion */     Ah!  I  guess,  the  railway-station  —  to  Dover  — 
you  are  going  abro.ad  ?  " 

"  No  such  thing  —  you  are  so  horridly  suspicious.  But 
i:.  is  true  I  had  been  to  the  station  inquiring  after  some 
luggage  or  parcels  which  a  friend  of  mine  had  ordered  to 
be  left  there  —  now,  don't  interrupt  me.  At  the  foot  of 
the  bridge  I  caught  a  sudden  glimpse  of  the  old  man  — 
changed  —  altered  —  aged  —  one  eye  lost.  You  had  said 
I  should  not  know  him  again,  but  I  did  ;  I  should  never 
have  recognized  his  face.  I  knew  him  by  the  build  of  the 
shoulder,  a  certain  turn  of  the  arms  —  I  don't  know 
what ;  one  knows  a  man  familiar  to  one  from  birth  with- 
out seeing  his  face.  Oh,  Bella  !  I  declare  that  I  felt  as 
soft  —  as  soft  as  the  silliest  muff  who  ever — "  Jasper  did 
not  complete  his  comparison,  but  paused  a  moment, 
breathing  hard,  and  then  broke  into  another  sentence. 
"He  was  selling  something  in  a  basket  —  matches,  boot- 
straps, deuce  knows  what.     He  !  a  clever  man,  too  I     I 

should  have  liked  to  drop  into  that  d d  basket  all  the 

money  I  had  about  me." 

"  Why  did  not  you  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  How  could  I  ?  He  would  have  recognized 
me.  There  would  have  been  a  scene  —  a  row  —  a  flare 
up  —  a  mob  round  us,  I  dare  say.  I  had  no  idea  it  would 
so  upset  me  ;  to  see  him  selling  matches,  too  ;  glad  wb 
did  not  meet  at  Gatesboro'.  Not  even  for  that  £100  do 
I  think  I  could  have  faced  him.     No  —  as  he  said  when 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  63 

we  last  parted  :  '  The  world  is  wide  enough  for  both. 
Give  me  some  brandy  —  thank  you." 

"You  did  not  speak  to  the  old  man  —  he  did  not  sea 
you  —  but  you  wanted  to  get  back  the  child  ;  you  felt  sure 
she  must  be  with  him ;  you  followed  him  home  ?  " 

"  I  ?  No  ;  I  should  have  had  to  wait  for  hours.  A 
man  like  me,  loitering  about  London  Bridge  !  —  I  should 
have  been  too  conspicuous  —  he  would  have  soon  caught 
sight  of  me,  though  I  kept  on  his  blind  side.  I  employed 
a  ragged  boy  to  watch  and  follow  him,  and  here  is  the 
address.  Now,  will  you  get  Sophy  back  for  me  without 
any  trouble  to  me,  without  my  appearing  ?  I  would 
rather  charge  a  regiment  of  Horse  Guards  than  bully 
that  old  man." 

"  Yet  you  would  rob  him  of  that  child  —  his  sole  com- 
fort ?  " 

"Bother  I"  cried  Losely,  impatiently:  "the  child  can 
be  only  a  burden  to  him  ;  well  out  of  his  way ;  'tis  for 
the  sake  of  that  child  he  is  selling  matches  !  It  would  be 
the  greatest  charity  we  could  do  him  to  set  him  free  from 
that  child  sponging  on  him,  dragging  him  down  ;  Tv^ithout 
her  he'd  find  a  way  to  shift  for  himself.  Why,  he's  even 
cleverer  than  I  am  I  And  there  —  and  there  —  give  him 
this  money,  but  don't  say  it  came  from  me." 

He  thrust,  without  counting,  several  sovereigns  —  at 
least  twelve  or  fourteen  —  into  Mrs.  Crane's  palm;  and 
so  powerful  a  charm  has  goodness  the  very  least,  even  in 
natures  the  most  evil,  that  that  unusual,  eccentric,  incon- 
sistent gleam  of  human  pity  in  Jasper  Losely's  benighted 


64  WHAT    WILL    HE    PO    WITH    IT? 

soul,  shed  its  relenting  influence  over  the  angry,  wrathfbl, 
and  vindictive  feelings  with  which  Mrs.  Crane  the  moment 
before  regarded  the  perfidious  miscreant ;  and  she  gazed 
at  him  with  a  sort  of  melancholy  wonder.  What !  though 
so  little  sympathizing  with  affection  that  he  could  not 
comprehend  that  he  was  about  to  rob  the  old  man  of  a 
comfort  which  no  gold  could  repay  —  what!  though  so 
contemptuously  callous  to  his  own  child  —  yet  there  in 
her  hand  lay  the  unmistakable  token  that  a  something  of 
humanity,  compunction,  compassion,  still  lingered  in  the 
breast  of  .the  greedy  cynic  ;  and  at  that  thought  all  that 
was  softest  in  her  own  human  nature  moved  toward  him 
—  indulgent  —  gentle.  But  in  the  rapid  changes  of  the 
heart-feminine,  the  very  sentiment  that  touched  upon  love 
brought  back  the  jealousy  that  bordered  upon  hate.  How 
came  he  by  so  much  money  ?  more  than  days  ago,  he,  the 
insatiate  spendthrift,  had  received  for  his  taskwork  ? 
And  that  Pocket-book  ! 

"  You  have  suddenly  grown  rich,  Jasper  ?  " 

For  a  moment  he  looked  confused,  but  replied,  as  he 

re-helped  himself  to  the  brandy,  "Yes,  rouge-et-noh 

luck.  Now  do  go  and  see  after  this  affair,  that's  a  dear, 
good  woman.  Get  the  child  to-day,  if  you  can.  I  will 
call  here  in  the  evening." 

"  Should  you  take  her,  then,  abroad  at  once  to  this 
worthy  lady  who  will  adopt  her  ?  If  so,  we  shall  meet,  I 
suppose,  no  more ;  and  I  am  assisting  you  to  forget  that 
I  live  still." 

"Abroad  —  that  crotchet  of  yours  again.     You  are 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  65 

quite  mistaken  —  in  fact,  the  lady  is  in  London.  It  was» 
for  her  effects  that  I  went  to  the  station.  Oh,  don't  be 
jealous  —  quite  elderly." 

"  Jealous,  my  dear  Jasper  ;  you  forget.  I  am  as  youi 
mother.  One  of  your  letters,  then,  announced  this  lady's 
intended  arrival.  You  were  in  correspondence  with  this 
—  elderly  lady  ?  " 

"  Why,  not  exactly  in  correspondence.  But  w^hen  I 
left  Paris  I  gave  the  General  Post-office  as  my  address  to 
a  few  friends  in  France.  And  this  lady,  who  took  an  in- 
terest in  my  affairs  (ladies,  whether  old  or  young,  who 
have  once  known  me  always  do),  was  aware  that  I  had 
expectations  with  respect  to  the  child.  So,  some  days 
ago,  when  I  was  so  badly  off,  I  wrote  a  line  to  tell  her 
that  Sophy  had  been  no  go,  and  that  but  for  a  dear  friend 
(that  is  you)  I  might  be  on  the  paue.  In  her  answer, 
she  said  she  should  be  in  London  as  soon  as  I  received 
her  letter  ;  and  gave  me  an  address  here  at  which  to  learn 
where  to  find  her  when  arrived  —  a  good  old  soul,  but 
strange  to  London  I  have  been  very  busy,  helping  her 
to  find  a  house,  recommending  tradesmen,  and  so  forth. 
She  likes  style,  and  can  afford  it.  A  pleasant  house 
enough ;  but  our  quiet  evenings  here  spoil  me  for  any 
thing  else.  Now  get  on  your  bonnet,  and  let  me  see  you 
off." 

"  On  one  condition,  my  dear  Jasper  ;  that  you  stay  her« 
till    I  return." 

Jasper  made  a  wry  face.  But,  as  it  was  near  dinner 
Ume,  and  he  never  wanted  for  appetite,  he   at  length 

C*  E 


66  Vr  H  A  T     WILL     HE     DO     WITH    I T  V 

agreed  to  employ  the  interval  of  her  absence  in  discussing 
a  meal,  which  experience  had  told  him  Mrs.  Crane's  new 
cook  would,  not  unskillfully,  though  hastily,  prepare. 
Mrs.  Crane  left  him  to  order  the  dinner,  and  put  on  her 
shawl  and  bonnet.  But,  gaining  her  own  room,  she  rung 
for  Bridgett  Greggs  ;  and  when  that  confidential  servant 
appeared,  she  said  :  "In  the  side-pocket  of  Mr.  Losely's 
coat  there  is  a  Pocket-book  ;  in  it  there  are  some  letters 
which  I  must  see.  I  shall  appear  to  go  out,  leave  the 
street-door  ajar,  that  I  may  slip  in  again  unobserved. 
You  will  serve  dinner  as  soon  as  possible.  And  when 
Mr.  Losely,  as  usual,  exchanges  his  coat  for  the  dressing- 
gown,  contrive  to  take  out  that  pocket-book  unobserved 
by  him.  Bring  it  to  me  here,  in  this  room  :  you  can  as 
easily  replace  it  afterward.  A  moment  will  sufiSce  to  ray 
purpose." 

Bridgett  nodded,  and  understood.  Jasper,  standing 
by  the  window,  saw  Mrs.  Crane  leave  the  house,  walking 
briskly.  He  then  threw  himself  on  the  sofa,  and  began 
to  doze  :  the  doze  deepened,  and  became  sleep.  Bridgett, 
entering  to  lay  the  cloth,  so  found  him.  She  approached 
on  tiptoe  —  sniffed  the  perfume  of  the  pocket-book  —  saw 
its  gilded  corners  peep  forth  from  its  lair.  She  hesitated 
—  she  trembled  —  she  was  in  mortal  fear  of  that  truculent 
slumberer ;  but  sleep  lessens  the  awe  thieves  feel,  or 
heroes  inspire.  She  has  taken  the  pocket-book — she  has 
fled  with  the  booty  —  she  is  in  Mrs.  Crane's  apartment, 
not  five  minutes  after  Mrs.  Crane  has  regained  its 
threshold 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH     IT?  67 

Rapidly  the  jealous  woman  ransacked  the  pocket-booU 
•  -started  to  see,  elegantly  worked  with  gold  threads,  in 
the  lining,  the  words,  "  Souviens-toi  de  ta  Gabrielle" 
—  no  other  letters,  save  the  two,  of  which  Jasper  had 
vouchsafed  to  her  but  the  glimpse.  Over  these  she  hur- 
ried her  glittering  eyes ;  and  when  she  restored  them  to 
their  place,  and  gave  back  the  book  to  Bridgett,  who 
stood  by,  breathless  and  listening,  lest  Jasper  should 
awake,  her  face  was  colorless,  and  a  kind  of  shudder 
seemed  to  come  over  her.  Left  alone,  she  rested  her 
face  on  her  hand,  her  lips  moving  as  if  in  self-commune. 
Then  noiselessly  she  glided  down  the  stairs,  regained  the 
street,  and  hurried  fast  upon  her  way, 

Bridgett  was  not  in  time  to  restore  the  book  to  Jasper's 
pocket,  for  when  she  re-entered  he  was  turning  round 
and  stretching  himself  between  sleep  and  waking.  But 
she  dropped  the  book  skillfully  on  the  floor,  close  beside 
the  sofa ;  it  would  seem  to  him,  on  waking,  to  have 
fallen  out  of  the  pocket  in  the  natural  movements  of 
sleep. 

And  in  fact,  when  he  rose,  dinner  now  on  the  table,  he 
picked  up  the  pocket-book  without  suspicion.  But  it 
was  lucky  that  Bridgett  had  not  waited  for  the  opportu- 
nity suggested  by  her  mistress.  For  when  Jasper  put  on 
Ihe  dressing-gown,  he  observed  that  his  coat  wanted 
l)rushing;  and,  in  giving  it  to  the  servant  for  that 
purpose,  he  used  the  precaution  of  taking  out  the  pocket- 
Dook,  and  placing  it  in  some  other  receptacle  of  his  dress. 

Mrs.  Crane  returned  in  less  than  two  hours  —  returno-i 


68  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

with  a  disappointed  look,  whicli  at  once  prepared  Jasper 
for  the  intelligence  that  the  birds  to  be  entrapped  had 
flown. 

"  They  went  away  this  afternoon,"  said  Mrs.  Crane, 
tossing  Jasper's  sovereigns  on  the  table,  as  if  they  burned 
her  fingers.  "  But  leave  the  fugitives  to  me.  I  will  find 
them." 

Jasper  relieved  his  angry  mind  by  a  series  of  guilty  but 
meaningless  expletives ;  and  then,  seeing  no  farther  use 
to  which  Mrs.  Crane's  wits  could  be  applied  at  present, 
finished  the  remainder  of  her  brandy,  and  wished  her 
good-night,  with  a  promise  to  call  again,  but  without  any 
intimation  of  his  own  address.  As  soon  as  he  was  gone, 
Mrs.  Crane  once  more  summoned  Bridgett. 

"You  told  me  last  week  that  your  brother-in-law, 
Simpson,  wished  to  go  to  America,  that  he  had  the  offer 
of  employment  there,  but  that  he  could  not  afford  the  fare 
of  the  voyage.  I  promised  I  would  help  him  if  it  was  a 
service  to  you." 

"  You  are  a  hangel,  Miss !  "  exclaimed  Bridgett,  drop- 
ping a  low  eourtesy — so  low  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  was 
going  on  her  knees.  "And  may  you  have  your  deserts  in 
the  next  blessed  world,  where  there  are  no  black-heartoi 
villings." 

"  Enough,  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  recoiling,  perhaps, 
from  that  grateful  benediction.  "  You  have  been  faithful 
to  me,  as  none  else  have  ever  been ;  but  this  time  T  do 
not  serve  you  in  return  so  much  as  I  meant  to  do.  The 
service  is  reciprocal,  if  your  brother-in-law  will  do  me  » 


WHAT    WILL     HE    DO     WITH    IT?  69 

favor.  He  takes  with  him  his  daughter,  a  mere  child. 
Bridgett,  let  them  enter  their  names  on  the  steam-vessel 
as  William  and  Sophy  Waife  ;  tliey  can,  of  course,  re- 
sume their  own  name  when  the  voyage  is  over.  There  is 
the  fare  for  them,  and  something  more.  Pooh,  no  thanks. 
I  can  spare  the  money.  See  your  brother-in-law  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning  ;  and  remember  they  go  by  the  next 
vessel,  which  sails  from  Liverpool  on  Thursday." 


CHAPTER    XYI. 

Those  poor  Pocket  Cannibals,  how  society  does  persecute  them ! 
Even  a  menial  servant  would  give  warning  if  disturbed  at  his 
meals.  But  your  Man-eater  is  the  meekest  of  creatures  ;  he  will 
never  give  warning,   and  —  not  often  take  it. 

Whatever  the  source  that  had  supplied  Jasper  Losely 
with  the  money,  from  which  he  had  so  generously  extracted 
the  sovereigns  intended  to  console  Waife  for  the  loss  of 
Sophy,  that  source  either  dried  up,  or  became  wholly  in- 
adequate to  his  wants.  For  elasticity  was  the  felicitous 
peculiarity  of  Mr.  Losely's  wants.  They  accommodated 
themselves  to  the  state  of  his  finances  with  mathematical 
precision,  always  requiring  exactly  five  times  the  amount 
of  the  means  placed  at  his  disposal.  From  a  shilling  to  a 
million,  multiply  his  wants  by  five  times  the  total  of  his 
means,  and  you  arrived  at  a  just  conclusion.  Jasper  called 
apon  Poole,  who  was  slowly  recovering,  but  unable  to 
leave  his  room  ;  and  finding  that  gentleman  in  a  morn 


TO  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

melancholy  state  of  mind  than  usual,  occasioned  by  Uncle 
Sam's  brutal  declaration,  that  "  if  responsible  for  his  god- 
son's sins,  he  was  not  responsible  for  his  debts  ;  "  and  that 
he  really  thought  "the  best  thing  Samuel  Dolly  could  do 
was  to  go  to  prison  for  a  short  time,  and  get  white- 
washed ;  "  Jasper  began  to  lament  his  own  hard  fate  : 
"And  just  when  one  of  the  finest  women  in  Paris  has 
come  here  on  purpose  to  see  me,"  said  the  lady-killer  ;  "  a 
lady  who  keeps  her  carriage,  Dolly !  Would  have  intro- 
duced you  if  you  had  been  well  enough  to  go  out.  One 
can't  be  always  borrowing  of  her.  I  wish  one  could. 
There's  Mother  Crane  would  sell  her  gown  off  her  back 
for  me,  but,  'Gad,  Sir,  she  snubs,  and  positively  frightens 
me.  Besides,  she  lays  traps  to  demean  me  —  set  me  to 
work  like  a  clerk  (not  that  I  would  hurt  your  feelings, 
Dolly.  If  you  are  a  clerk,  or  something  of  that  sort,  you 
are  a  gentleman  at  heart).  Well,  then,  we  are  both  done 
up  and  cleaned  out ;  and  my  decided  opinion  is,  that  no- 
thing is  left  but  a  bold  stroke." 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  bold  strokes,  but  I  don't  see 
any  ;  and  Uncle  Sam's  bold  stroke  of  the  Fleet  Prison  is 
not  at  all  to  my  taste." 

"  Fleet  Prison  !  Fleet  fiddlestick  !  Xo.  You  have 
never  been  in  Russia?  Why  should  we  not  go  there 
both  ?  My  Paris  friend,  Madame  Caumartin,  was  going 
to  Italy,  but  her  plans  are  changed,  and  she  is  now  all  for 
St.  Petersburg.  She-will  wait  a  few  days  for  you  to  get 
well.  We  will  all  go  together  and  enjoy  ourselves.  The 
Russians  doat  upon  whist.     We  shall  get  into  their  swell 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  11 

sets,  aiul  live  like  priiives."  Therewith  Jasper  launelied 
forth  on  the  text  of  Russian  existence,  in  such  glowing 
terms,  that  Dolly  Poole  shut  his.  aching  eyes,  and  fancied 
himself  sledging  down  the  Xeva,  covered  with  furs  —  a 
countess  waiting  for  him  at  dinner,  and  counts  in  dozens 
ready  to  ofler  bets,  to  a  fabulous  amount,  that  Jasper 
Losely  lost  the  rubber. 

Having  lifted  his  friend  into  this  region  of  aerial  castles, 
Jasper  then,  descending  into  the  practical  world,  wound 
up  with  the  mournful  fact  that  one  could  not  get  to  Peters- 
burg, nor,  when  there,  into  swell  sets,  without  having  some 
little  capital  on  hand. 

"  I  tell  you  what  we  will  do.  Madame  Caumartin  lives 
in  prime  style.  Get  old  Latham,  your  employer,  to  dis- 
count her  bill  at  three  months'  date,  for  £500,  and  we  will 
be  off  in  a  crack."  Poole  shook  his  head.  "  Old  Latham 
is  too  knowing  a  file  for  that  —  a  foreigner !  He'd  want 
security. " 

"  ril  be  security." 

Dolly  shook  his  head  a  second  time,  still  more  emphati- 
cally than  the  first. 

"  But  you  say  he  does  discount  paper  —  gets  rich  on 
it?" 

"Yes,  gets  rich  on  it,  which  he  might  not  do  if  he  dis- 
counted the  paper  you  propose.     No  offense." 

"  Oh,  no  offense  among  friends  !  You  have  taken  him 
bills  which  he  has  discounted  ? " 

"Yes,  good  paper." 

'•'  Any  paper  signed  by  good  names  is  good  paper.  We 
can  sign  good  names  if  we  know  their  handwritings." 


72  WHAT     WILL     HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

Dollj  started  and  turned  white.  Knave  he  was — cheat 
at  cards,  blackleg  on  the  turf — but  forgery  !  that  crime 
was  new  to  him.  The  very  notion  of  it  brought  on  a 
return  of  fever.  And  while  Jasper  was  increasing  his 
malady  by  arguing  with  his  apprehensions,  luckily  for 
Poole,  Uncle  Sam  came  in.  Uncle  Sam,  a  sagacioufc  old 
tradesman,  no  sooner  clapped  eyes  on  the  brilliant  Losely 
than  he  conceived  for  him  a  distrustful  repugnance,  simi- 
lar to  that  with  which  an  experienced  gander  may  itrgard 
a  fox  in  colloquy  with  its  gosling.  He  had  al.-eady 
learned  enough  of  his  godson's  ways  and  chosen  society 
to  be  assured  that  Samuel  Dolly  had  indulged  in  very 
anti-commercial  tastes,  and  been  sadly  contaminated  by 
very  anti-commercial  friends.  He  felt  persuaded  that 
Dolly's  sole  chance  of  redemption  was  in  working  on  his 
mind  while  his  body  was  still  suffering,  so  that  Poole 
might,  on  recovery,  break  with  all  former  associations. 
On  seeing  Jasper  in  the  dress  of  an  exquisite,  with  the 
thews  of  a  prize-fighter.  Uncle  Sam  saw  the  stalwart  in- 
carnation of  all  the  sins  which  a  godfather  had  vovred 
that  a  godson  should  renounce.  Accordingly,  he  made 
himself  so  disagreeable,  that  Losely,  in  great  disgust, 
took  a  hasty  departure.  And  Uncle  Sam,  as  he  helped 
the  nurse  to  plunge  Dolly  into  his  bed,  had  the  brutality 
to  tell  his  nephew,  in  very  plain  terms,  that  if  ever  he 
found  that  Brummagem  gent  in  Poole's  rooms  again, 
Poole  would  never  again  see  the  color  of  Uncle  Sam's 
money.  Dolly  beginning  to  blubber,  the  good  man,  re- 
lenting, patted  him  on  the  back,  and  said,  "But  as  soop 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  73 

as  you  are  well,  I'll  carry  you  with  me  to  my  country  box, 
and  keep  you  out  of  harm's  way  till  I  find  you  a  wife, 
who  will  comb  your  head  for  you  !  "  —  at  which  cheering 
prospect  Poole  blubl)ered  more  dolefully  than  before. 
On  retiring  to  his  own  lodging  in  the  Gloucester  coffee 
house,  Uncle  Sam,  to  make  all  sure,  gave  positive  orders 
to  Poole's  landlady,  who  respected  in  Uncle  Sam  the 
man  who  might  pay  what  Poole  owed  to  her,  on  no  ac- 
count to  let  in  any  of  Dolly's  profligate  friends,  but 
especially  the  chap  he  had  found  there ;  adding,  **  'Tis 
as  much  as  my  nephew's  life  is  worth,  and,  what  is  more 
to  the  purpose,  as  much  as  your  bill  is."  Accordingly, 
when  Jasper  presented  himself  at  Poole's  door  again  that 
very  evening,  the  landlady  apprised  him  of  her  orders ; 
and,  proof  to  his  insinuating  remonstrances,  closed  the 
door  in  his  face.  But  a  French  chronicler  has  recorded 
that,  when  Henry  lY.  was  besieging  Paris,  though  not 
a  loaf  of  bread  could  enter  the  walls,  love-letters  passed 
between  city  and  camp  as  easily  as  if  there  had  been  no 
siege  at  alL  And  does  not  Mercury  preside  over  money 
as  well  as  love  ?  Jasper,  spurred  on  by  Madame  Cau- 
martin,  who  was  exceedingly  anxious  to  exchange  Lon- 
don for  Petersburg  as  soon  as  possible,  maintained  a 
close  and  frequent  correspondence  with  Poole  by  the 
agency  of  the  nurse,  who  luckily  was  not  above  being 
bribed  by  shillings.  Poole  continued  to  reject  the  vil- 
lainy proposed  by  Jasper  ;  but,  in  the  course  of  the  cor- 
respondence, he  threw  out,  rather  incoherently  —  for  his 
mind  began  somewhat  to  wander  —  a  scheme  equally 
11.-7 


74  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    ITT 

flagitious,  whicli  Jasper,  aided  perhaps  by  Madame  Can 
martin's  yet  keener  wit,  caught  up,  and  quickly  reduced 
to  deliberate  method.  Old  Mr.  Latham,  among  the  bills 
he  discounted,  kept  those  of  such  more  bashful  customers 
as  stipulated  that  their  resort  to  temporary  accommoda- 
tion should  be  maintained  a  profound  secret,  in  his  own 
safe.  Among  these  bills  Poole  knew  that  there  was  one 
for  £1000,  given  by  a  young  nobleman  of  immense 
estates,  but  so  entailed  that  he  could  neither  sell  nor 
mortgage,  and  therefore  often  in  need  of  a  few  hundreds 
for  pocket-money.  The  nobleman's  name  stood  high. 
His  fortune  was  universally  known  ;  his  honor  unimpeach- 
able. A  bill  of  his  any  one  would  cash  at  sight.  Could 
Poole  but  obtain  that  bill !  It  had,  he  believed,  only  a 
few  weeks  yet  to  run.     Jasper,  or  Madame   Caumartin 

might  get  it  discounted  even  by  Lord 's  own  banker  ; 

and  if  that  were  too  bold,  by  any  professional  bill-broker  ; 
and  all  three  be  off  before  a  suspicion  could  arise.  But 
to  get  at  that  safe  a  false  key  might  be  necessary.  Poole 
suggested  a  waxen  impression  of  the  lock.  Jasper  sent 
him  a  readier  contrivance  —  a  queer-looking  tool  that 
looked  an  instrument  of  torture.  All  now  necessary  was 
for  Poole  to  recover  sufficiently  to  return  to  business,  and 
to  get  rid  of  Uncle  Sam  by  a  promise  to  run  down  to 
the  country  the  moment  Poole  had  conscientiously  cleared 
some  necessary  arrears  of  work.  While  this  correspond- 
ence went  on,  Jasper  Losely  shunned  Mrs.  Crane,  and 
took  his  meals  and  spent  his  leisure  hours  with  Madame 
Caumartin.     He  needed  no  dressing-gown  and  slippers 


•WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  7£ 

to  feel  himself  at  home  there.  Madame  Canmartin  had 
really  taken  a  showy  house  in  a  genteel  street.  Her  own 
appearance  was  eminently  what  the  French  call  disiinguce. 
Dressed  to  perfection,  from  head  to  foot ;  neat  and 
finished  as  an  epigram.  Her  face,  in  shape  like  a 
thorough-bred  cobra  capella — low,  smooth  frontal,  widen- 
ing at  the  summit ;  chin  tapering,  but  jaw  strong  ;  teeth 
marvelously  white,  small,  and  with  points  sharp  as  those 
in  the  maw  of  the  fish  called  the  "  Sea  Devil ;"  eyes  like 
dark  emeralds,  of  which  the  pupils,  when  she  was  angry 
or  when  she  was  scheming,  retreated  upward  toward  the 
temples,  emitting  a  luminous  green  ray  that  shot  through 
space  like  tlie  gleam  that  escapes  from  a  dark  lantern ; 
complexion  superlatively  feminine  —  call  it  not  pale,  but 
white,  as  if  she  lived  on  blanched  almonds,  peachstones, 
and  arsenic  ;  hands  so  fine  and  so  bloodless,  with  fingers 
so  pointedly  taper  there  seemed  stings  at  their  tips ; 
manners  of  one  who  had  ranged  all  ranks  of  society, 
from  highest  to  lowest,  and  duped  the  most  wary  in  each 
of  them.  Did  she  please  it,  a  crown  prince  might  have 
thought  her  youth  must  have  passed  in  the  chambers  of 
porphyry  !  Did  she  please  it,  an  old  soldier  would  have 
sworn  the  creature  had  been  a  vivandi^re.  In  age,  per- 
haps bordering  on  forty.  She  looked  younger  ;  but  had 
she  been  a  hundred  and  twenty  she  could  not  have  been 
more  wicked.  Ah  !  happy,  indeed,  for  Sophy,  if  it  were 
to  save  her  youth  from  ever  being  fostered  m  elegant 
boudoirs  by  those  bloodless  hands,  that  the  crippled  vaga- 
bond had  borne  her  away  from  Arabella's  less  cruel  un- 


76  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

kindness  ;  better  far  even  Rugge's  village  stage  ;  better 
far  stealthy  by-lanes,  feigned  names,  and  the  erudite  tricks 
of  Sir  Isaac  I 

But  still  it  is  due  even  to  Jasper  to  state  here  that  in 
Losely's  recent  design  to  transfer  Sophy  from  Waife's 
care  to  that  of  Madame  Caumartin,  the  Sharper  harbored 
no  idea  of  a  villainy  so  execrable  as  the  character  of  the 
Parisienne  led  the  jealous  Arabella  to  suspect.  But  his 
real  object  in  getting  the  child,  at  that  time,  once  more 
into  his  power  was  (whatever  its  nature)  harmless  com- 
pared with  the  mildest  of  Arabella's  dark  doubts.  But 
still,  if  Sophy  had  been  regained,  and  the  object  on  re- 
gaining her  foiled  (as  it  probably  would  have  been),  what 
then  might  have  become  of  her  ?  —  lost,  perhaps,  forever 
to  Waife  —  in  a  foreign  land,  and  under  such  guardian- 
ship ?  Grave  question,  which  Jasper  Losely,  who  exer- 
cised so  little  foresight  in  the  paramount  question,  viz., 
what,  some  day  or  other,  will  become  of  himself,  was  not 
likely  to  rack  his  brains  by  conjecturing  I 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Crane  was  vigilant.  The  detective 
police-officer,  sent  to  her  by  Mr.  Rugge,  could  not  give 
her  the  information  which  Rugge  desired,  and  which  she 
did  not  longer  need.  She  gave  the  detective  some  infor- 
mation respecting  Madame  Caumartin.  One  day,  toward 
the  evening,  she  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  Uncle  Sam. 
He  called  ostensibly  to  thank  her  for  her  kindness  to  his 
godson  and  nephew;  and  to  beg  her  not  to  be  offended 
if  he  had  been  rude  to  Mr.  Losely,  who,  he  understood 
from  Dolly,  was  a  particular  friend  of  hers.     "  You  see 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  77 

ma'am,  Samuel  Dolly  is  a  weak  young  man,  and  easily 
led  astray ;  but,  luckily  for  himself,  be  has  no  money  and 
no  stomach.  So  he  may  repent  in  time  ;  and  if  I  could 
find  a  wife  to  manage  him,  he  ha5  not  a  bad  head  for  the 
main  chance,  and  may  become  a  practical  man.  Re- 
peatedly I  have  told  him  he  should  go  to  prison,  but  that 
was  only  to  frighten  him  —  fact  is,  I  want  to  get  him  safe 
down  into  the  country,  and  he  don't  take  to  that.  So  I 
am  forced  to  say,  '  My  box,  home-brewed  and  south-down, 
Samuel  Dolly,  or  a  Lunnon  jail,  and  debtors'  allowance.  * 
Must  give  a  young  man  his  choice,  my  dear  lady." 

Mrs.  Crane,  observing  that  what  he  said  was  extremely 
sensible.  Uncle  Sam  warmed  in  his  confidence. 

"  And  I  thought  I  had  him,  till  I  found  Mr.  Losely  in 
his  sick-room  ;  but  ever  since  that  day,  I  don't  know  how 
it  is,  the  lad  has  had  something  on  his  mind,  which  I 
don't  half  like  —  cracky,  I  think,  my  dear  lady  —  cracky. 
I  suspect  that  old  nurse  passes  letters.  I  taxed  her  with 
it,  and  she  immediately  wanted  to  take  her  Bible-oath, 
and  smelt  of  gin  —  two  things  which,  taken  together, 
look  guilty." 

"But,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  growing  much  interested,  "if 
Mr.  Losely  and  Mr.  Poole  do  correspond,  what  then  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  want  to  know,  ma'am.  Excuse  me  ;  I 
don't  wish  to  disparage  Mr.  Losely  —  a  dashing  gent, 
and  nothing  worse,  I  dare  say.  But  certain  sure  I  am 
that  he  has  put  into  Samuel  Dolly's  head  something 
which  has  cracked  it  I  There  is  the  lad  now  up  and 
dressed,  when  he  ought  to  be  in  bed,  and  swearing  he'll 
7*  2p 


78  WHAT     WILL     HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

go  to  old  Latham's  to-morrow,  and  that  long  arrears  of 
work  are  on  his  conscience  !  Never  heard  him  talk  of 
conscience  before  — that  looks  guilty  !  And  it  does  not 
frighten  him  any  longer  when  I  say  he  shall  go  to  prison 
for  his  debts ;  and  he's  very  anxious  to  get  me  out  of 
Ijunnon  ;  and  when  I  threw  in  a  word  about  Mr.  Losely 
(slyly,  my  good  lady — just  to  see  its  effect),  he  grew  as 
white  as  that  paper ;  and  then  he  began  strutting  and 
swelling,  and  saying  that  Mr.  Losely  would  be  a  great 
man,  and  that  he  should  be  a  great  man,  and  that  he  did 
not  care  for  my  money  —  he  could  get  as  much  money  as 
he  liked.  That  looks  guilty,  my  dear  lady.  And,  oh," 
cried  Uncle  Sam,  clasping  his  hands,  "  I  do  fear  that  he's 
thinking  of  something  worse  than  he  has  ever  done  be- 
fore, and  his  brain  can't  stand  it.  And,  ma'am,  he  has  a 
great  respect  for  you ;  and  you've  a  friendship  for  Mr. 
Losely.  Now  just  suppose  that  Mr.  Losely  should  have 
been  thinking  of  what  your  flash  sporting  gents  call  a 
harmless  spree,  and  my  sister's  sou  should,  being  cracky, 
construe  it  into  something  criminal.  Oh,  Mrs.  Crane,  do 
go  and  see  Mr.  Losely,  and  tell  him  that  Samuel  Dolly  is 
not  safe  —  is  not  safe  I  " 

"  Much  better  that  I  should  go  to  your  nephc«\,"  said 
Mrs  Crane;  "  and  with  your  leave  I  will  do  so  at  once. 
Let  me  see  him  alone.  Where  shall  I  find  }ou  after- 
ward ?  " 

"  At  the  Gloucester  Coffee-house.  Oh,  my  dear  lady, 
how  can  I  thank  you  enough.  The  boy  can  be  nothing 
to  you ;  but  to  me,  he's  my  sister's  son — the  blackguard  ! " 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  19 


CHAPTER  XYII 

Dices  laborantes  in  iino 

Penelopen  vitreamque  Circen.  —  Horat. 

Mrs.  Crane  found  Poole  in  his  little  sitting-room, 
bung  round  with  prints  of  opera-dancers,  prize-fighters, 
race-horses,  and  the  dog  Billy.  Samuel  Dolly  was  in 
fall  dress.  His  cheeks,  usually  so  pale,  seemed  much 
flashed.  He  was  evidently  in  a  state  of  high  excitement, 
bowed  extremely  low  to  Mrs.  Crane,  called  her  Countess, 
asked  if  she  had  been  lately  on  the  Continent,  and  if  she 
knew  Madame  Caumartin ;  and  whether  the  nobility  at 
St.  Petersburg  were  jolly,  or  stuck-up  fellows,  who  gave 
themselves  airs  —  not  waiting  for  her  answer.  In  fact 
his  mind  was  unquestionably  disordered. 

Arabella  Crane  abruptly  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"You  are  going  to  the  gallows,"  she  said,  suddenly. 
"  Down  on  your  knees  and  tell  me  all,  and  1  will  keep 
your  secret,  and  save  you  ;  lie  —  and  you  are  lost ! " 

Poole  burst  into  tears,  and  dropped  on  his  knees  as  he 
was  told. 

In  ten  minutes  Mrs.  Crane  knew  all  that  she  cared  to 
know,  possessed  herself  of  Losely's  letters,  and,  leaving 
Poole  less  light-headed  and  more  light-hearted,  she  has- 
tened to  Uncle  Sam  at  the  Gloucester  Coffee-house. 
"  Take  your  nephew  out  of  town  this  evening,  and  do  not 


80  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

let  him  from  jour  sight  for  the  next  six  months.  Hark 
you,  he  will  never  be  a  good  man  ;  but  you  may  save  him 
from  the  hulks,  Do  so.  Take  my  advice."  She  was 
gone  before  Uncle  Sam  could  answer. 

She  next  proceeded  to  the  private  house  of  the  detec- 
tive with  whom  she  had  before  conferred  —  this  time  less 
to  give  than  to  receive  information.  Not  half  an  hour 
after  her  interview  with  him,  Arabella  Crane  stood  in  the 
street  wherein  was  placed  the  showy  house  of  Madame 
Caumartin.  The  lamps  in  the  street  were  now  lighted — 
the  street,  even  at  day,  a  quiet  one,  was  comparatively 
deserted.  All  the  windows  in  the  Frenchwoman's  house 
were  closed  with  shutters  and  curtains,  except  on  the 
drawing-room  floor.  From  those  the  lights  within 
streamed  over  a  balcony  filled  with  gay  plants  —  one  of 
the  casements  was  partially  open.  And  now  and  then, 
where  the  watcher  stood,  she  could  just  catch  the  glimpse 
of  a  passing  form  behind  the  muslin  draperies,  or  hear 
the  sound  of  some  louder  laugh.  In  her  dark-gray  dress, 
and  still  darker  mantle,  Arabella  Crane  stood  motionless, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  those  windows.  The  rare  foot-passen- 
ger who  brushed  by  her  turned  involuntarily  to  glance  at 
the  countenance  of  one  so  still,  and  then  as  involuntarily 
to  survey  the  house  to  which  that  countenance  was  lifted. 
No  such  observer  so  incurious  as  not  to  hazard  conjec- 
ture what  evil  to  that  house  was  boded  by  the  dark  lurid 
eyes  that  watched  it  with  so  fixed  a  menace.  Thus  she 
remained,  sometimes,  indeed,  moving  from  her  post,  as  a 
sentry  moves  from  his,  slowly  pacing  a  few  steps  to  and 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  81 

fro,  returning  to  the  same  place,  and  again  motionless ; 
thus  she  remained  for  hours.  Evening  deepened  into 
night  —  night  grew  neai  to  dawn  ;  she  was  still  there  in 
that  street,  and  still  her  eyes  were  on  that  house.  At 
length  the  door  opened  noiselessly  —  a  tall  man  tripped 
forth  with  a  light  step,  and  humming  the  tune  of  a  gay 
French  chanson.  As  he  came  straight  toward  the  spot 
where  Arabella  Crane  was  at  watch,  from  her  dark 
mantle  stretched  forth  her  long  arm  and  lean  hand,  and 
seized  him.     He  started,  and  recognized  her. 

"  You  here  !  "  he  exclaimed  —  "  you  !  —  at  such  an 
hour  !  — you  !" 

"  I,  Jasper  Losely,  here  to  warn  you.  To-morrow  the 
officers  of  justice  will  be  in  that  accursed  house.  To- 
morrow that  woman  —  not  for  her  worst  crimes,  they 
elude  the  law,  but  for  her  least,  by  which  the  law  hunts 
her  down  —  will  be  a  prisoner.  No  —  you  shall  not 
return  to  warn  her  as  I  warn  you  "  (for  Jasper  here  broke 
away,  and  retreated  some  steps  toward  the  house)  ;  "  or, 
if  you  do,  share  her  fate.     I  cast  you  off." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Jasper,  halting,  till  with 
slow  steps  she  regained  his  side.  "  Speak  more  plainly : 
if  poor  Madame  Caumartin  has  got  into  a  scrape,  which 
T  don't  think  likely,  what  have  I  to  do  with  it?" 

"  The  woman  you  call  Caumartin  fled  from  Paris  to 
escape  its  tribunals.  She  has  been  tracked  ;  the  French 
Government  have  claimed  her.  Ho  I  you  smile.  This 
'loes  not  touch  you." 

"Certainly  not." 

r 


82j  avhat  will  he  do  with  it? 

"  Bvit  there  are  charges  against  her  from  English  trades- 
men, and  if  it  be  proved  that  jou  knew  her  in  her  prope" 
name  —  the  infamous  Gabrielle  Desmarets  —  if  it  1 
proved  that  you  have  passed  off  the  French  billets  de 
hanque  that  she  stole — if  you  were  her  accomplice  in  ob- 
taining goods  under  her  false  name  —  if  you,  enriched  by 
her  robberies,  were  aiding  and  abetting  her  as  a  swindler 
here,  though  you  may  be  safe  from  the  French  law,  will 
you  be  safe  from  the  English  ?  You  may  be  innocent, 
Jasper  Losely  ;  if  so,  fear  nothing.  You  may  be  guilty  ; 
if  so,  hide,  or  follow  me ! " 

Jasper  paused.  His  first  impulse  was  to  trust  implicity 
to  Mrs.  Crane,  and  lose  not  a  moment  in  profiting  by  such 
counsels  of  concealment  or  flight  as  an  intelligence  so 
superior  to  his  own  could  suggest.  But  suddenly  re- 
membering that  Poole  had  undertaken  to  get  the  bill  for 
£1000  by  the  next  day  —  that  if  flight  were  necessary, 
there  was  yet  a  chance  of  flight  with  booty  —  his  con- 
stitutional hardihood,  and  the  grasping  cupidity  by  which 
it  was  accompanied,  made  him  resolve  at  least  to  hazard 
the  delay  of  a  few  hours  And  after  all,  might  not  Mrs. 
Crane  exaggerate  ?  Was  not  this  the  counsel  of  a  jeal- 
ous w^oman  ?  "Pray,"  said  he,  moving  on,  and  fixing 
quick  keen  eyes  on  her  as  she  walked  by  his  side,  "pray, 
how  did  you  learn  all  these  particulars  ?  " 

"  From  a  detective  policeman  employed  to  discover 
Sophy.  In  conferring  with  him,  the  name  of  Jasper 
Losely  as  her  legal  protector  was  of  course  stated  :  that 
name,  was  already  coupled  with  the  name  of  the  false 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  83 

Caumartin.  Thus,  indirectly,  the  child  you  would  have 
consigned  to  that  woman,  saves  you  from  sharing  that 
woman's  ignominy  and  doom." 

"  Stuff! "  said  Jasper,  stubbornly,  though  he  winced  at 
her  words ;  "  I  don't,  on  reflection,  see  that  any  thing  can 
be  proved  against  me.  I  am  not  bound  to  know  why  a 
lady  changes  her  name,  nor  how  she  comes  by  her  money. 
And  as  to  her  credit  with  tradesmen  —  nothing  to  speak 
of;  most  of  what  she  has  got  is  paid  for — what  is  not 
paid  for  her,  is  less  than  the  worth  of  her  goods.  Pooh  1 
I  am  not  so  easily  frightened  —  much  obliged  to  you  all 
the  same.  Go  home  now  ;  'tis  horridly  late.  Good-night, 
or  rather  good-morning." 

"Jasper,  mark  me  !  if  you  see  that  woman  again  —  if 
you  attempt  to  save  or  screen  her  —  I  shall  know,  and 
you  lose  in  me  your  last  friend  —  last  hope  —  last  plank 
in  a  devouring  sea  !  " 

These  words  were  so  solemnly  uttered  that  they  thrilled 
the  hard  heart  of  the  reckless  man.  "  I  have  no  wish  to 
screen  or  save  her,"  he  said,  with  selfish  sincerity.  "And 
after  what  you  have  said,  I  would  as  soon  enter  a  fire-ship 
as  that  house.  But  let  me  have  some  hours  to  consider 
what  is  best  to  be  done." 

"Yes,  consider  —  I  shall  expect  you  to-morrow." 

He  went  his  way  up  the  twilight  streets  toward  a  new 
lodging  he  had  hired  not  far  from  the  showy  house.  She 
4rew  her  mantle  closer  round  her  gaunt  figure,  and,  taking 
the  opposite  direction,  threaded  thoroughfares  yet  lonelier, 
till  she  gained  her  door,  and  was  welcomed  back  by  the 
faithful  Bridgett. 


84  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 


CHAPTER  XYIII 

Hope  tells  a  flattering  tale  to  Mr.  Rugge.  He  is  undeceived  bj  a 
Solicitor,  and  left  to  mourn  ;  but  in  turn,  though  unconsciously, 
Mr.  Rugge  deceives  the  Solicitor,  and  the  Solicitor  deceives  his 
client,  which  is  6s.  8c?.  in  the  Solicitor's  pocket. 

The  next  morning  Arabella  Crane  was  scarcely  dressed 
before  Mr.  Rugge  knocked  at  her  door.  On  the  previous 
day  the  Detective  had  informed  him  that  William  and 
Sophy  Waife  were  discovered  to  have  sailed  for  America. 
Frantic,  the  unhappy  manager  rushed  to  the  steam- 
packet  office,  and  was  favored  by  an  inspection  of  the 
books,  which  confirmed  the  hateful  tidings.  As  if  in 
mockery  of  his  bereaved  and  defrauded  state,  on  returning 
home  he  found  a  polite  note  from  Mr.  Gotobed,  request- 
ing him  to  call  at  the  ofQce  of  that  eminent  solicitor,  with 
reference  to  a  young  actress  named  Sophy  Waife,  and 
hinting  "that  the  visit  might  prove  to  his  advantage  I" 
Dreaming  for  a  wild  moment  that  Mr.  Losely,  conscience- 
Btricken,  might  through  this  solicitor  pay  back  his  £1 00, 
he  rushed  incontinent  to  Mr.  Gotobed's  office,  and  was 
at  once  admitted  into  the  presence  of  that  stately 
practitioner. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Gotobed,  with 
formal  politeness,  "  but  I  heard  a  day  or  two  ago  accident- 
ally from  my  head-clerk,  who  had  learned  it  also  accideni- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  85 

allv  from  a  sporting  friend,  tliat  you  were  exhibiting  at 
Humberston,  during  the  race-week,  a  young  actress  named 
on  the  play-bills  (here  is  one)  'Juliet  Araminta,*  and 
whom,  as  I  am  informed,  you  had  previously  exhibited 
in  Surrey  and  elsewhere  ;  but  she  was  supposed  to  have 
relinquished  that  earlier  engagement,  and  left  your  stage 
with  her  grandfather,  William  Waife.  I  am  instructed 
by  a  distinguished  client,  who  is  wealthy,  and  who,  from 
motives  of  mere  benevolence,  interests  himself  in  the  said 
"William  and  Sophy  Waife,  to  discover  their  residence. 
Please,  therefore,  to  render  up  the  child  to  my  charge^ 
apprising  me  also  of  the  address  of  her  grandfather,  if  he 
be  not  with  you  ;  and  without  waiting  for  further  instruc- 
tions from  my  client,  who  is  abroad,  I  will  venture  to  say 
that  any  sacrifice  in  the  loss  of  your  juvenile  actress  will 
be  most  liberally  compensated." 

"  Sir,"  cried  the  miserable  and  imprudent  Rugge,  "I 
paid  £100  for  that  fiendish  child  —  a  three  years'  engage- 
ment—  and  I  have  been  robbed.  Restore  me  the  £100, 
and  I  will  tell  you  where  she  is,  and  her  vile  grandfather 
also." 

At  hearing  so  bad  a  character  lavished  upon  objects 
recommended  to  his  client's  disinterested  charity,  the  wary 
solicitor  drew  in  his  pecuniary  horns. 

"  Mr.  Rugge/'  said  he,  "  I  understand  from  your  words 
that  you  cannot  place  the  child  Sophy,  aliin  Julia  Ara- 
minta,  in  my  hands.  You  ask  £100  te  Inforu?  me  where 
she  is.     Have  you  a  lawful  claim  on  he:'*" 

"Certainly,   Sir;  she  is  my  property.'* 

II.  — 8 


86  WHAT    WILL    HE     DO    WITH    IT? 

"  Then  it  is  quite  clear  that  though  you  may  know 
where  she  is,  you  cannot  get  at  her  yourself,  and  cannot, 
therefore,  place  her  in  my  hands.  Perhaps  she  is  —  in 
heaven  ! " 

"  Confound  her.  Sir  !  no  —  in  America  I  or  on  the  seas 
tc  it." 

"Are  you  sure  ?" 

"I  have  just  come  from  the  steam-packet  office,  and 
seen  the  names  in  their  book.  William  and  Sophy  Waife 
sailed  from  Liverpool  last  Thursday  week." 

"And  they  formed  an  engagement  with  you  —  received 
your  money ;  broke  the  one,  absconded  with  the  other. 
Bad  characters  indeed  ! " 

"  Bad  I  you  may  well  say  that  —  a  set  of  swindling 
scoundrels,  the  whole  kit  and  kin.  And  the  ingratitude  I " 
continued  Rugge  :  "  I  was  more  than  a  father  to  that 
child  "  (he  began  to  whimper)  :  "  I  had  a  babe  of  my  own 
once  —  died  of  convulsions  in  teething.  I  thought  that 
child  would  have  supplied  its  place,  and  I  dreamed  of  the 
York  Theater  ;  but" — here  his  voice  was  lost  in  the  folds 
of  a  marvellously  dirty  red  pocket-handkerchief. 

Mr.  Gotobed  having  now,  however,  learned  all  that  he 
cared  to  learn,  and  not  being  a  soft-hearted  man  (first- 
rate  solicitors  rarely  are),  here  pulled  out  his  watch,  and 
said : 

"  Sir,  you  have  been  very  ill-treated,  I  perceive  I 
must  wish  you  good-day ;  I  have  an  engagement  in  the 
City.  I  cannot  help  you  back  to  your  £100,  but  accept 
this  trifle  (a  £5  note)  for  your  loss  of  time  in  tilling '' 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  87 

^  inging  the  bell  violently).  "Door  —  show  out  tliis 
gentleman." 

That  evening  Mr.  Gotobed  wrote  at  length  to  Guy 
Darrell,  informing  him  that,  after  great  pains  and  pro- 
longed research,  he  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  ascertain 
that  the  strolling  plaj^er  and  little  girl  whom  Mr.  Darrell 
had  so  benevolently  requested  him  to  look  up,  were  very 
bad  characters,  and  had  left  the  country  for  the  United 
States,  as,  happily  for  England,  bad  characters  were  wont 
to  do. 

That  letter  reached  Guy  Darrell  when  he  was  far  away, 
amidst  the  forlorn  pomp  of  some  old  Italian  city,  and 
Lionel's  tale  of  the  little  girl  not  very  fresh  in  his  gloomy 
thoughts.  Naturally,  he  supposed  that  the  boy  had  been 
duped  by  a  pretty  face  and  his  own  inexperienced  kindly 
heart.  And  so  and  so  —  why,  so  end  half  the  efforts  of 
men  who  intrust  to  others  the  troublesome  execution  of 
humane  intentions  I  The  scales  of  early  justice  are  poised 
in  their  quivering  equilibrium,  not  by  huge  hundred- 
weights, but  by  infinitesimal  grains,  needing  the  most 
wary  caution  —  the  most  considerate  patience  —  the  most 
delicate  touch,  to  arrange  or  readjust.  Few  of  our  errors, 
national  or  individual,  come  from  the  design  to  be  unjust 
—  most  of  them  from  sloth,  or  incapacity  to  grapple  with 
the  difficulties  of  being  just.  Sins  of  commission  may 
not,  perhaps,  shock  the  retrospect  of  conscience.  Large 
and  obtrusive  to  view,  we  have  confessed,  mourned,  re- 
pented, possibly  atoned  them.  Sins  of  omission,  so  vailed 
amidst  our  hourly  emotions  —  blent,  confused,  unseen,  in 


88  WHAT    WILL    HE    rO    WITH    IT? 

the  conventional  routine  of  existence. —  Alas  !  could  these 
suddenly  emerge  from  their  shadow,  group  together  in 
serried  mass  and  accusing  order  —  alas,  alas  !  would  not 
the  best  of  us  then  start  in  dismay,  and  would  not  the 
proudest  humble  himself  at  the  Throne  of  Mercy !   . 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

Joy,  nevertheless,  does  return  to  Mr.  Rugge;  and  Hope  now  inflicts 
herself  on  Mrs.  Crane.  A  very  fine-looking  Hope,  too  —  six  feet, 
one  —  strong  as  Achilles,  and  as  fleet  of  foot! 

But  we  have  left  Mr.  Kugge  at  Mrs.  Crane's  door; 
admit  him.  He  bursts  into  her  drawing-room,  wiping  hia 
brows. 

"  Ma'am,  they  are  off  to  America  —  !  " 

"  So  I  have  heard.  You  are  fairly  entitled  to  the  re- 
turn of  your  money — " 

"Entitled,  of  course  ;  but — " 

"  There  it  is  ;  restore  to  me  the  contract  for  the  child's 
services." 

Rugge  gazed  on  a  roll  of  bank-notes,  and  could  scarcely 
believe  his  eyes.  He  darted  forth  his  hand,  the  notes  re- 
ceded like  the  daggei  in  Macbeth,  "  First  the  contract," 
Raid  Mrs.  Crane.  Rugge  drew  out  his  greasy  pocket- 
book,  tind  extracted  the  worthless  engagement. 

"Henceforth,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Crane,  "you  have  no 
right  to  complain  ;  and  whether  or  not  the  girl  ever  again 
fall  in  your  way    your  claim  ov-er  her  ceases." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  89 

"  The  gods  be  praised,  it  does,  ma'am  ;  I  have  had  quite 
enough  of  her.  But  you  are  every  inch  a  lady,  and  allow 
me  to  add  that  I  put  you  on  my  free  list  for  life." 

Rugge  gone ;  Arabella  Crane  summoned  Bridgett  to 
her  presence. 

"  Lor,  miss,"  cried  Bridgett,  impulsively,  "  who'd  think 
you'd  been  up  all  night  raking  I  I  have  not  seen  you  look 
so  well  this  many  a  year." 

"All,"  said  Arabella  Crane,  "  I  will  tell  you  why.  I 
have  done  what  for  man  '  a  year  I  never  thought  I  should 
do  again  —  a  good  action.  That  child  —  that  Sophy  — 
you  remember  how  cruelly  I  used  her  ?  " 

"  Oh,  miss,  don't  go  for  to  blame  yourself;  you  fed  her, 
you  clothed  her,  when  her  own  father,  the  villing,  sent  her 
away  from  hisself  to  you — you  of  all  people  —  you.  How 
could  you  be  caressing  and  fawning  on  his  cliild  —  their 
child  ?  " 

Mrs.  Crane  hung  her  head  gloomily.  "What  is  past 
is  past.  I  have  lived  to  save  that  child,,  and  a  curse  seems 
lifted  from  my  soul.  Now  listen  ;  I  shall  leave  London  — 
England,  probably  this  evening.  You  will  keep  this 
house  ;  it  will  be  ready  for  me  any  moment  I  return.  The 
agent  who  collects  my  house-rents  will  give  you  money  as 
you  want  it.  Stint  not  yourself,  Bridgett.  I  have  been 
saving,  and  saving,  and  saving,  for  dreary  years — nothing 
else  to  interest  me  —  and  I  am  richer  than  I  seem." 

"  But  where  are  you  going,  miss  ? "  said  Bridgett,  slowly 
recovering  from  the  stupefaction  occasioned  by  her  mis< 
tress'  announcement 
8* 


90  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"I  dcn't  know  —  I  don't  care." 

"Oh,  gracious  stars!  is  it  with  that  dreadful  Jaspei 
Losely  ?  —  it  is,  it  is.  You  are  crazed,  you  i>re  bewitched, 
miss  ! " 

"Possibly  I  am  crazed  —  possibly  bewitched;  but  I 
ta^B  that  man's  life  to  mine  as  a  penance  for  all  the  evil 
mine  has  ever  known  ;  and  a  day  or  two  since  I  should 
have  said,  with  rage  and  shame,  '  I  cannot  help  it ;  I 
loathe  myself  that  I  can  care  what  becomes  of  him.' 
Now,  without  rage,  without  shame,  I  say,  '  The  man  whom 
I  once  so  loved  shall  not  die  on  a  gibbet  if  I  can  help  it ; 
and,  please  Heaven,  help  it  I  will.'" 

The  grim  woman  folded  her  arms  on  her  breast,  and 
raising  her  head  to  its  full  height,  there  was  in  her  face 
and  air  a  stern  gloomy  grandeur,  which  could  not  have 
been  seen  without  a  mixed  sensation  of  compassion  and 
awe. 

"  Go,  now,  Bridgett ;  I  have  said  all.  He  will  be  here 
soon  ;  he  will  come  —  he  must  come  —  he  has  no  choice  ; 
and  then  —  and  then — "  she  closed  her  eyes,  bowed  hei 
head,  and  shivered. 

Arabella  Crane  was,  as  usual,  right  in  her  predictions 
Before  noon  Jasper  came  —  came,  not  with  his  jocund 
swagger,  but  with  that  sidelong  sinister  look  —  look  of 
the  man  whom  the  world  cuts  —  triumphantly  restored  to 
its  former  place  in  his  visage.  Madame  Caumartin  had 
been  arrested ;  Poole  had  gone  into  the  country  with 
Uncle  Sam  ;  Jasper  had  seen  a  police-offLcer  at  the  door 
of  his  own  lodgings.    He  slunk  away  from  the  fashionable 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  91 

thoroughfares  —  slunk  to  the  recesses  of  Poddon  Place  — 
slunk  into  Arabella  Crane's  prim  drawing*-room,  and  said, 
sullenly  :  "All  is  up  ;  here  I  am  ! " 

Three  days  afterward,  in  a  quiet  street  in  a  quiet  town 
of  Belgium,  wherein  a  sharper,  striving  to  live  by  his 
profession,  would  soon  become  a  skeleton,  in  a  com  mo- 
dious  airy  apartment,  looking  upon  a  magnificent  street, 
the  reverse  of  noisy,  Jasper  Losely  sat  secure,  innocuous, 
and  profoundly  miserable.  In  another  house,  the  windows 
of  which,  facing  those  of  Jasper's  sitting-room,  from  an 
upper  story,  commanded  so  good  a  view  tlierein  that  it 
placed  him  under  a  surveillance  akin  to  that  designed  by 
Mr.  Bentham's  reformatory  Panopticon,  sat  Arabella 
Crane.  Whatever  her  real  feelings  toward  Jasper  Losely 
(and  what  those  feelings  were  no  virile  pen  can  presume 
authoritatively  to  define  —  for  lived  there  ever  a  man  who 
thoroughly — thoroughly  understood  a  woman  ?),  or  what- 
ever in  earlier  life  might  have  been  their  reciprocated 
vows  of  eternal  love,  not  only  from  the  day  that  Jasper, 
on  his  return  to  his  native  shores,  presented  himself  in 
Poddon  Place,  had  their  intimacy  been  restricted  to  the 
austerest  bounds  of  friendship  ;  but  after  Jasper  had  so 
rudely  declined  the  hand  which  now  fed  him,  Arabella 
Crane  had  probably  perceived  that  her  sole  chance  of 
retaining  intellectual  power  over  his  lawless  being,  neces- 
sitated the  utter  relinquishment  of  every  hope  or  project 
that  could  expose  her  again  to  his  contempt.  Suiting 
appearances  to  reality,  the  decorum  of  a  separate  house 
was  essential  to  the  maintenance  of  that  authority  with 


92  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

which  the  rigid  nature  of  their  intercourse  invested  her 
The  additional  cost  strained  her  pecuniary  resources,  but 
she  saved  in  her  own  accommodation  in  order  to  leave 
Jasper  no  cause  to  complain  of  any  stinting  in  his.  There, 
then,  she  sate  by  her  window,  herself  unseen,  eyeing  Mm 
in  his  opposite  solitude,  accepting  for  her  own  life  a 
barren  sacrifice,  but  a  jealous  sentinel  on  his.  Meditating 
as  she  sate,  and  as  she  eyed  him  —  meditating  what 
employment  she  could  invent,  with  the  bribe  of  emolu- 
ments to  be  paid  furtively  by  her — for  those  strong  hands 
that  could  have  felled  an  ox,  but  were  nerveless  in  turning 
an  honest  penny  —  and  for  that  restless  mind,  hungering 
for  occupation,  with  the  digestion  of  an  ostrich  for  dice 
and  debauch,  riot  and  fraud,  but  queasy  as  an  exhausted 
dyspeptic  at  the  reception  of  one  innocent  amusement, 
one  honorable  toil.  But  while  that  woman  still  schemes 
bow  to  rescue  from  hulks  or  halter  that  execrable  man, 
who  shall  say  that  he  is  without  a  chance  ?    A  chance  be 

has  — WHAT   WILL   HE  DO   WITH   IT? 


BOOK    FIFTH. 


CHAPTER   I. 

Envy  will  be  a  science  -when  it  learns  the  use  of  the  microscope. 

When  leaves  fall  and  flowers  fade,  great  people  are 
found  in  their  country  seats.  Look  I — that  is  Montfort 
Court !  A  place  of  regal  magnificence,  so  far  as  extent 
of  pile  and  amplitude  of  domain  could  satisfy  the  pride 
of  ownership,  or  inspire  the  visitor  with  the  respect  due 
to  wealth  and  power.  An  artist  could  have  made  no- 
thing of  it.  The  Sumptuous  everywhere  —  the  Picture- 
esque  nowhere.  The  House  was  built  in  the  reign  of 
George  I.,  when  first  commenced  that  horror  of  the 
Beautiful,  as  something  in  bad  taste,  which,  agreeably  to 
our  natural  love  of  progress,  progressively  advanced 
through  the  reigns  of  succeeding  Georges.  An  enormous 
farade  —  in  dull  brown  brick  —  two  wings  and  a  center, 
with  double  flights  of  steps  to  the  hall  door  from  the 
carriage-sweep.  No  trees  allowed  to  grow  too  near  the 
house;  in  front,  a  stately  flat  with  stone  balustrades. 
But  wherever  the  eye  turned  there  v>^as  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  park  —  miles  upon  miles  of  park  —  not  a  corn- 
field in  sight  —  not  a  roof-tree  —  not  a  spire  —  only  those 
2g  ( 93 ) 


94.  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    ITT 

lata  siUntia  —  still  widths  of  turf,  and,  somewhat  thinly 
scattered  and  afar,  those  groves  of  giant  trees.  The 
whole  prospect  so  vast  and  so  monotonous  that  it  never 
tempted  you  to  take  a  walk.  No  close-neighboring 
poetic  thicket  into  which  to  plunge,  uncertain  whither 
you  would  emerge ;  no  devious  stream  to  follow.  The 
very  deer,  fat  and  heavy,  seemed  bored  by  pastures  it 
would  take  them  a  week  to  traverse.  People  of  moderate 
wishes  and  modest  fortunes  never  envied  Montfort  Court ; 
they  admired  it  —  they  w^ere  proud  to  say  they  had  seen 
it.     But  never  did  they  say, 

"Oh,  that  foi'  me  some  home  like  this  wouhl  smile!" 
Not  SO,  very  —  very  great  people  !  —  theyr^ihQv  coveted 
than  admired.  Those  oak-trees  so  large,  yet  so  unde- 
cayed  —  that  park,  eighteen  miles  at  least  in  circumfe- 
rence—  that  solid  palace  which,  w^ithout  inconvenience, 
could  entertain  and  stow  away  a  king  and  his  whole 
court  —  in  short,  all  that  evidence  of  a  princely  territory, 
and  a  weighty  rent-roll,  made  English  dukes  respectfully 
envious,  and  foreign  potentates  gratifyingly  jealous. 

But  turn  from  the  front.  Open  the  gate  in  that  stone 
balustrade.  Come  southward  to  the  garden  side  of  the 
house.  Lady  Montfort's  flower-garden.  Yes ;  not  so 
dull !  flowers,  even  autumnal  flowers,  enliven  any  sward 
Siill,  on  so  large  a  scale,  and  so  little  relief;  so  little 
mystery  about  those  broad  gravel  walks  ;  not  a  winding 
alley  any  where.  Oh  for  a  vulgar  summer-house  ;  for 
some  alcove,  all  honey-suckle  and  ivy  I  But  the  dahlias 
are  splendid  !     Yery  true  ;  only  dahlias,  at  the  best,  are 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  95 

such  uninteresting  prosy  things.  What  poet  ever  wrote 
upon  a  dalilia  !  Surely  Lady  Montfort  might  have  in- 
troduced a  little  more  taste  here  —  shown  a  little  more 
fancy  !  Lady  Montfort !  I  should  like  to  see  my  lord's 
face,  if  Lady  Montfort  took  any  such  liberty.  But  there 
is  Lady  Montfort  walking  slowly  along  that  broadj 
broad,  broad  gravel  walk  —  those  splendid  dahlias,  on 
either  side,  in  their  set  parterres.  There  she  walks,  in 
full  evidence  from  all  those  sixty  remorseless  windows  on 
the  garden  front,  each  window^  exactly  like  the  other. 
There  she  walks,  looking  wistfully  to  the  far  end  —  ('tia 
a  long  way  oflf)  —  where,  happily,  there  is  a  w^icket  that 
carries  a  persevering  pedestrian  out  of  sight  of  the  sixty 
windows,  into  shady  walks,  toward  the  banks  of  that  im- 
mense piece  of  water,  two  miles  from  the  house.  My 
lord  has  not  returned  from  his  moor  in  Scotland  —  my 
lady  is  alone.  No  company  in  the  house  —  it  is  like  say- 
ing, "No  acquaintance  in  a  city.'.  But  the  retinue  is 
full.  Though  she  dined  alone,  she  might,  had  she 
pleased,  have  had  almost  as  many  servants  to  gaze  upon 
her  as  there  were  windows  now  staring  at  her  lonely 
walk,  with  their  glassy  spectral  eyes. 

Just  as  Lady  Montfort  gains  the  wicket  she  is  over- 
taken by  a  visitor,  walking  fast  from  ^;he  gravel  sweep  by 
the  front  door,  where  he  has  dismounted  —  where  he  has 
caught  sight  of  her ;  any  one  so  dismounting  might  have 
caught  sight  of  her  —  could  not  help  it.  Gardens  so 
fine,  were  made  on  purpose  for  fine  persons  walking  m 
them  to  be  seen. 


96  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"Ah,  Lady  Montfort,"  said  the  visitor,  stammering 
painfully,  "I  am  so  glad  to  find  you  at  home." 

"  At  home,  George  ! "  said  the  lady,  extending  her 
hand;  "where  else  is  it  likely  that  I  should  be  found? 
But  how  pale  you  are  1     What  has  happened  ?  " 

She  seated  herself  on  a  bench,  under  a  cedar-tree,  just 
without  the  wicket,  and  George  Morley,  our  old  friend 
the  Oxonian,  seated  himself  by  her  side  familiarly,  but 
with  a  certain  reverence.  Lady  Montfort  was  a  few 
years  older  than  himself — his  cousin  —  he  had  known 
her  from  his  childhood. 

"  What  has  happened  ! "  he  repeated,  "  nothing  new. 
T  have  just  come  from  visiting  the  good  bishop." 
"  He  does  not  hesitate  to  ordain  you  ?  " 
"No — but  I  shall  never  ask  him  to  do  so." 
"  My  dear  cousin,  are  you  not  overscrupulous  ?     You 
would  be  an  ornament  to  the  Church,  sufficient  in  all  else 
to  justify  your  compulsory  omission  of  one  duty,  which  a 
curate  could  perform  for  you." 

Morley  shook  his  head  sadly.  "  One  duty  omitted  !  " 
said  he,  "  But  is  it  not  that  duty  which  distinguishes 
the  priest  from  the  layman  ?  and  how  far  extends  that 
duty  ?  Wherever  there  needs  a  voice  to  speak  the  Word  ; 
not  in  the  pulpit  only,  but  at  the  hearth,  by  the  sick  bed  ; 
there  should  be  the  Pastor!  No— I  cannot,  I  ought 
not,  ]  dare  not  I  Incompetenv,  is  the  laborer,  how  can  I 
be  worthy  of  the  hire?"  It  took  him  long  to  bring  out 
these  words  ;  his  emotion  increased  his  infirmity.  Lady 
Montfort  listened  with  an  exquisite  respect,  visible  in  her 
i;ompassion,  and  paused  long  before  she  answered. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  97 

George  Morloy  was  the  younger  son  of  a  countr} 
gentleman,  with  a  good  estate  settled  upon  the  elder  son. 
George's  father  had  been  an  intimate  friend  of  his  kins- 
man, the  Marquis  of  Montfort  (predecessor  and  grandsire 
of  the  present  lord)  ;  and  the  Marquis  had,  as  he  thought, 
amply  provided  for  George  in  undertaking  to  secure  to 
iiim,  when  of  fitting  age,  the  living  of  Humberston,  the 
most  lucrative  preferment  in  his  gift.  The  living  had 
been  held  for  the  last  fifteen  years  by  an  incumbent,  now 
very  old,  upon  the  honorable  understanding  that  it  was 
to  be  resigned  in  favor  of  George  should  George  take 
orders.  The  young  man  from  his  earliest  childhood  thus 
destined  to  the  Church,  devoted  to  the  prospect  of  that 
profession  all  his  studies,  all  his  thoughts.  Not  till  he 
was  sixteen  did  his  infirmity  of  speech  make  itself  seriously 
perceptible ;  and  then  elocution  masters  undertook  to 
cure  it  —  they  failed.  But  George's  mind  continued  in 
the  direction  toward  which  it  had  been  so  systematically 
biased.  Entering  Oxford,  he  became  absorbed  in  its 
academical  shades.  Amidst  its  books  he  almost  forgot 
the  impediment  of  his  speech.  Shy,  taciturn,  and  solitary 
he  mixed  too  little  with  others  to  have  it  much  brought 
before  his  own  notice.  He  carried  off  prizes  —  he  took 
high  honors.  On  leaving  the  university,  a  profound 
theologian  —  an  enthusiastic  Churchman —  filled  with  the 
most  earnest  sense  of  the  pastor's  solemn  calling  —  he 
was  thus  coraplimentarily  accosted  by  the  Archimandrite 
of  his  college,  "  What  a  pity  you  can  not  go  into  the 
Church  ! " 

II.  — 9  a 


98  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"Cau  not  —  but  I  ani  going  into  the  Church." 

•'  You,  is  it  possible  ?  But  perhaps  you  are  sure  of  a 
living  —  " 

"  Yes  —  Humberston. " 

"An  immense  living,  but  a  very  large  population. 
Certainly  it  is  in  the  bishop's  own  discretionary  power  to 
ordain  you,  and  for  all  the  duties  you  can  keep  a  curate. 
Bit  — "     The  Don  stopped  short,  and  took  snuff. 

That  "But"  said  as  plainly  as  words  could  say,  "It 
m'aj  be  a  good  thing  for  you,  but  is  it  fair  for  the  Church  ?  " 

Bo  George  Morley,  at  least,  thought  that  "But"  im- 
plied. His  conscience  took  akrm.  He  was  a  thoroughly 
noble-hearted  man,  likely  to  be  the  more  tender  of  con- 
science where  tempted  by  worldly  interests.  With  that 
living  be  was  rich,  without  it  very  poor.  But  to  give  up 
a  callLiJ.'^,  to  the  idea  of  which  he  had  attached  himself 
with  aJi  the  force. of  a  powerful  and  zealous  nature,  was 
to  give  jp  the  whole  scheme  and  dream  of  his  existence. 
He  remained  irresolute  for  some  time  ;  at  last  he  wrote  to 
the  prese:it  Lord  Montfort,  intimating  his  doubts,  and 
relieving  uhe  Marquis  from  the  engagement  which  his 
lordship's  predecessor  had  made.  The  present  Marquis 
was  not  a  man  capable  of  understanding  such  scruples. 
But,  luckily  perhaps  for  George  and  for  the  Church,  the 
larger  affairs  of  the  great  House  of  Montfort  were  not 
administered  by  the  Marquis.  The  parliamentary  in- 
fluences,  the  ecclesiastical  preferments,  together  with  the 
practical  direction  of  minor  agents  to  the  vast  and  com- 
plicated estates  attached  to  the  title,  were  at  that  time 


WHAT    WILL     HE    DO     WITH    IT?  99 

under  the  direction  of  Mr.  Carr  Yipont,  a  powerful 
member  of  Parliament,  and  husband  to  that  Lady  Selina 
whose  condescension  had 'so  disturbed  the  nerves  of  Frank 
Yance  the  artist.  Mr.  Carr  Yipont  governed  this  vice- 
royalty  according  to  the  rules  and  traditions  by  which  the 
House  of  Montfort  had  become  great  and  prosperous. 
For  not  only  every  state,  but  every  great  seigniorial 
House  has  its  hereditary  maxims  of  policy ;  not  less  the 
House  of  Montfort  than  the  House  of  Hapsburg.  Now 
the  House  of  Montfort  made  it  a  rule  that  all  admitted 
to  be  members  of  the  family  should  help  each  other  ;  that 
the  head  of  the  House  should  never,  if  it  could  be  avoided, 
suffer  any  of  its  branches  to  decay  and  wither  into  poverty. 
The  House  of  Montfort  also  held  it  a  duty  to  foster  and 
make  the  most  of  every  species  of  talent  that  could  swell 
the  influence,  or  adorn  the  annals  of  the  family.  Having 
rank,  having  wealth,  it  sought  also  to  secure  intellect,  and 
to  knit  together  into  solid  union,  throughout  all  ramifica- 
tions of  kinship  and  cousinhood,  each  variety  of  repute 
and  power  that  could  root  the  ancient  tree  more  nrmly  in 
the  land.  Agreeably  to  this  traditional  policy,  Mr,  Carr 
Yipont  not  only  desired  that  a  Yipont  Morley  should  not 
1  )5e  a  very  good  thing,  but  that  a  very  good  thing  should 
not  lose  a  Yipont  Morley  of  high  academical  distinction 
—  a  Yipont  Morley  who  might  be  a  bishop  !  He  there- 
fore drew  up  an  admirable  letter,  which  the  Marquis 
signed — that  the  Marquis  should  take  the  trouble  of  copy- 
ing it  was  out  of  the  question  —  wherein  Lord  Montfort 
was  made  to  express  great  admiration  of  the  disinterested 


100  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

delicacy  of  sentiment,  which  proved  George  Yipont 
Morley  to  be  still  more  fitted  to  the  cure  of  souls ;  md, 
placing  rooms  at  Montfort  Court  at  his  service  (the 
Marquis  not  being  himself  there  at  the  moment),  suggested 
that  George  should  talk  the  matter  over  with  the  prosent 
incumbent  of  Humberston  (that  town  was  not  many  Miles 
distant  from  Montfort  Court),  who,  though  he  h?»d  no 
impediment  in  his  speech,  still  never  himself  preached  oi 
read  prayers,  owing  to  an  affection  of  the  trachea,  and 
ft^ho  was,  nevertheless,  a  most  efficient  clergyman.  George 
Morley,  therefore,  had  gone  down  to  Montfort  0 .  art 
some  months  ago,  just  after  his  interview  with  Mrs.  C.  ine. 
He  had  then  accepted  an  invitation  to  spend  a  w*  k  or 
two  with  the  Rev.  Mr.  Allsop,  the  Rector  of  Humberston 
—  a  clergyman  of  the  old  school,  a  fair  scholar,  a  perfect 
gentleman,  a  man  of  the  highest  honor,  good-aatured, 
charitable,  but  who  took  pastoral  duties  much  more  easily 
than  good  clergymen  of  the  new  school  —  be  they  high  or 
low  —  are  disposed  to  do.  Mr.  Allsop,  who  was  then  in 
his  eightieth  year,  a  bachelor  with  a  very  good  fortune  ot 
his  own,  was  perfectly  willing  to  fulfill  the  engagement  on 
which  he  held  his  living,  and  render  it  up  to  George ;  but 
he  was  touched  by  the  earnestness  with  which  George  as- 
sured him  that  at  all  events  he  would  not  consent  to  dis- 
[jlace  the  venerable  incumbent  from  a  tenure  he  had  so 
long  and  honorably  held  —  and  would  wait  till  the  living 
was  vacated  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature.  Mr.  Allsop 
conceived  a  warm  affection  for  the  young  scholar.  He 
had  a  grandniece  staying  with  him  on  his  visit,  who  less 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  101 

openly,  but  not  less  warmly,  shared  that  afifection ;  and 
with  her  George  Morley  fell  shyly  and  timorously  in  love 
With  that  living  he  would  be  rich  enough  to  marry  — 
without  it,  no.  Without  it  he  had  nothing  but  a  fellow- 
ship, which  matrimony  would  forfeit,  and  the  scanty  por- 
tion of  a  country  squire's  younger  son.  The  young  lady 
herself  was  dowerless,  for  Allsop's  fortune  was  so  settled 
that  no  share  of  it  would  come  to  his  grandniece. 
Another  reason  for  conscience  to  gulp  down  that  unhappy 
impediment  of  speech !  Certainly,  during  this  visit, 
Morley's  scruples  relaxed ;  but  when  he  returned  home 
they  came  back  with  greater  force  than  ever  —  with 
greater  force,  because  he  felt  that  now  not  only  a  spiritual 
ambition,  but  a  human  love  was  a  casuist  in  favor  of  self- 
interest.  He  had  returned  on  a  visit  to  Humberston 
Kectory  about  a  week  previous  to  the  date  of  this  chapter 
—  the  niece  was  not  there.  Sternly  he  had  forced  him- 
self to  examine  a  little  more  closely  into  the  condition  of 
the  flock  which  (if  he  accepted  the  charge)  he  would  have 
to  guide,  and  the  duties  that  devolved  upon  the  chief 
pastor  in  a  populous  trading  town.  He  became  appalled. 
Humberston,  like  most  towns  under  the  political  influence 
">f  a  Great  House,  was  rent  by  parties.  One  party,  who 
succeeded  in  returning  one  of  the  two  members  for  Par- 
liament, all  for  the  House  of  Montfort ;  the  other  party, 
who  returned  also  their  member,  all  against  it.  By  one 
half  the  town,  whatever  came  from  Montfort  Court  was 
?ure  to  be  regarded  with  a  most  malignant  and  distorted 
vision.  Meanwhile,  though  Mr.  Allsop  was  popular  with 
9* 


102  WTTAT     WILL     HE    DO     WITH     IT? 

the  higher  classes,  and  with  such  of  the  extreme  poor  as 
his  charity  relieved,  his  pastoral  influence  generally  was 
a  dead  letter.     His   curate,  who  preached  for  him  —  a 
j^ood  young  man  enough,  but  extremely  dull  —  was  not 
one  of  those  men  who  fill  a  church.     Tradesmen  wanted 
an  excuse  to  stay  away  or  choose  another  place  of  wor- 
ship ;  and  they  contrived  to  hear  some  passage  in  the 
sermons,   over  which,  while  the   curate   mumbled,   they 
habitually  slept  —  that  they  declared  to  be  "Puseyite." 
The  church  became  deserted  :  and  about  the  same  time  a 
very  eloquent  Dissenting  minister  appeared  at  Humber- 
ston,  and  even  professed  churchfolks  went  to  hear  him. 
George  Morley,  alas  !  perceived  that  at  Humberston,  if 
the  Church  there  were  to  hold  her  own,  a  powerful  and 
popular   preacher  was    essentially  required.     His    mind 
was  now  made  up.     At  Carr  Yipont's  suggestion,  the 
bishop  of  the  diocese,  being  then  at  his  palace,  had  sent 
to  see  him ;  and,  while  granting  the  force  of  his  scruples, 
had  yet  said,  "  Mine  is  the  main  responsibility.     But  if 
you  ask  me  to  ordain  you,  I  will  do  so  without  hesitation  ; 
for  if  the  Church  wants  preachers,  it  also  wants  deep 
scholars  and  virtuous  pastors."    Fresh  from  this  interview, 
George  Morley  came  to  announce  to  Lady  Montfort  that 
his  resolve  was  unshaken.     She,  I  have  said,  paused  long 
before  she  answered,     "  George,"  she  began  at  last,  in  a 
voice  so  touchingly  sweet  that  its  very  sound  was  balm 
to  a  wounded  spirit  —  "  I  must  not  argue  with  you  —  I 
bow  before  the  grandeur  of  your  motives,  and  I  will  not 
say  that  you  are  not  right.     One  thing  I  do  feel,  that  if 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  103 

you  thus  sacrifice  your  inclinations  and  interests  from 
scruples  so  pure  and  bolj,  you  will  never  be  to  be  pitied 
—  you  will  never  know  regret.  Poor  or  rich,  single  or 
wedded,  a  soul  that  so  seeks  to  reflect  heaven  wnll  be 
serene  and  blessed  I "  Thus  she  continued  to  address 
him  for  some  time,  he  all  the  while  inexpressibly  soothed 
and  comforted ;  then  gradually  she  insinuated  hopes^  even 
of  a  world'y  and  temporal  kind — literature  was  left  to 
him  —  the  scholar's  pen,  if  not  the  preacher's  voice.  In 
literature  he  might  make  a  career  that  would  lead  on  to 
fortune.  There  were  places  also  in  the  public  service  to 
which  a  defect  in  speech  was  no  ol)stacle.  She  knew  his 
secret,  modest  attachment ;  she  alluded  to  it  just  enough 
to  encourage  constancy  and  rebuke  despair.  As  she 
ceased,  Bis  admiring  and  grateful  consciousness  of  his 
cousin's  rare  qualities  changed  the  tide  of  his  emotions 
toward  her  from  himself,  and  he  exclaimed  with  an 
earnestness  that  almost  wholly  subdued  his  stutter. 

"What  a  counselor  you  are!  —  what  a  soother  !  If 
Montfort  were  but  less  prosperous  or  more  ambitious,  what 
a  treasure,  either  to  console  or  to  sustain,  in  a  mind  like 
yours !  " 

As  those  words  were  said,  you  might  have  seen  at  once 
why  Lady  Montfort  was  called  haughty  and  reserved. 
Iler  lip  seemed  suddenly  to  snatch  back  its  sweet  smile  — 
her  dark  eye,  before  so  purely,  softly  friend-like,  became 
coldly  distant  —  the  tones  of  ker  voice  were  not  the  same, 
as  she  answered  — 

"Lord  Montfort  values   me.  as  it  is.  far  beyond  my 


104  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

merits  —  far,"  she  added,  with  a  different  intonation, 
gravely  mournful. 

"  Forgive  me  ;  I  have  displeased  you.  I  did  not  mean 
it.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  presume  either  to  dis- 
parage Lord  Montfort  —  or  —  or  to  —  "  he  stopped  short, 
saving  thp  hiatus  by  a  convenient  stammer.  "  Only,''  he 
continued,  after  a  pause,  "  only  forgive  me  this  once. 
Recollect  I  was  a  little  boy  when  you  were  a  young  lady^ 
and  I  have  pelted  you  with  snow-balls,  and  called  you 
'  Caroline.'"  Lady  Montfort  suppressed  a  sigh,  and  gave 
the  young  scholar  back  her  gracious  smile,  but  not  a  smile 
that  would  have  permitted  him  to  call  her  "  Caroline  " 
again.  She  remained,  indeed,  a  little  more  distant  than 
usual  during  the  rest  of  their  interview,  which  was  not 
much  prolonged  ;  for  Morley  felt  annoyed  witlT  himself 
that  he  had  so  indiscreetly  offended  her,  and  seized  an  ex- 
cuse to  escape.  "By-the-by,"  said  he,  "I  have  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Carr  Vipont,  asking  me  to  give  him  a  sketch 
for  a  Gothic  bridge  to  the  water  yonder.  I  will,  with 
your  leave,  walk  down  and  look  at  the  proposed  site. 
Only  do  say  that  you  forgive  me." 

"  Forgive  you,  Cousin  George,  oh  yes.  One  word  only 
—  it  is  true  you  were  a  child  still  when  I  fancied  I  was  a 
woman,  and  you  have  a  right  to  talk  to  me  upon  all  things, 
except  those  that  relate  to  me  and  Lord  Montfort ;  unless, 
indeed/'  she  added,  with  a  bewitching  half  laugh,  "'  unless 
you  ever  see  cause  to  scold  me,  there.  Good-by,  my  cousin, 
and  in  turn  forgive  me,  if  I  was  so  petulant.  The  Caioline 
70U  pelted  with  snow-balls  was  always  a  wayward,  impul- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  105 

sive  creature,  quick  to  take  offense,  to  misunderstand,  and 

—  to  repent." 

Back  into  the  broad,  broad  gravel-walk,  walked,  more 
slowly  than  before,  Lady  Montfort.  Again  the  sixty 
ghastly  windo^vs  stared  at  her  with  all  their  eyes  —  back 
from  the  gravel-walk,  through  a  side-door,  into  the  pom- 
pous solitude  of  the  stately  house  —  across  long  chambers 
where  the  mirrors  reflected  her  form,  and  the  huge  chairs, 
in  their  flaunting  damask  and  flaring  gold,  stood  stiff  on 
desolate  floors  —  into  her  own  private  room  —  neither 
large  nor  splendid  that ;  plain  chintzes,  quiet  book-shelves. 
She  need  not  have  been  the  Marchioness  of  Montfort  to 
inhabit  a  room  as  pleasant  and  as  luxurious.  And  the 
rooms  that  she  could  only  have  owned  as  Marchioness, 
what  were  those  worth  to  her  happiness  ?  I  know  not. 
"  Xothing,"  fine  ladies  will  perhaps  answer.  Yet  those 
same  fine  ladies  will  contrive  to  dispose  their  daughters  to 
answer,  "All."  In  her  own  room  Lady  Montfort  sunk  on 
her  chair ;  wearily  ;  —  wearily  she  looked  at  the  clock  — 
wearily  at  the  books  on  the  shelves  —  at  the  harp  near 
the  v/indow.  Then  she  leaned  her  face  on  her  hand,  and 
that  face  was  so  sad,  and  so  humbly  sad,  that  you  would 
have  wondered  how  any  one  could  call  Lady  Montfort 
proud 

"  Treasure  II  —  1 1 — worthless,  fickle,  credulous  fool  I 

—  I  — I!" 

The  groom  of  the  chambers  entered  with  the  letters  by 
the  afternoon  post.     That  Great   House   contrived  to 


106  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

w'orrj  Uself  with  two  posts  a  day.     A  royal  command  to 
Windsor  — 

"  I  shall  be  more  alone  in  a  court  than  here/'  murmured 
Lady  Montfort. 


CHAPTER   II. 

Truly  saith  the  proverb,  '*  Much  corn  lies  under  the  straw  that  is 
not  seen." 

Meanwhile  George  Morley  followed  the  long  shady 
walk  —  very  handsome  walk,  full  of  prize  roses  and  rare 
exotics — artificially  winding,  too — walk  so  well  kept  that 
it  took  thirty-four  men  to  keep  it  —  noble  walk,  tiresome 
walk  —  till  it  brought  him  to  the  great  piece  of  water, 
which,  perhaps,  four  times  in  the  year  was  visited  by  the 
great  folks  in  the  Great  House.  And  being  thus  out  of 
the  immediate  patronage  of  fashion,  the  great  piece  of 
water  really  looked  natural  —  companionable,  refreshing 
—  you  began  to  breathe  —  to  unbutton  your  waistcoat, 
loosen  your  neckcloth  —  quote  Chaucer,  if  you  could  re- 
collect him,  or  Cowper,  or  Shakspeare,  or  Thomson's 
Seasons ;  in  short,  any  scraps  of  verse  that  came  into 
your  head  -as  your  feet  grew  joyously  entangled  with 
fern  —  as  the  trees  grouped  forest-like  before  and  round 
you — trees  which  there  being  out  of  sight,  were  allowed 
to  grow  too  old  to  be  worth  five  shillings  apiece,  moss- 
grown,  hollow-trunked,  some  pollarded — trees  invaluable  I 
Ha  !  the  hare  !  how  she  scuds  1  See,  the  deer  marching 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  107 

down  to  tlie  water-side.  What  groves  of  bulrushes-— 
islands  of  water-lilj  I  And  to  throw  a  Gothic  bridge 
there,  bring  a  great  gravel  road  over  the  bridge  I  Oh, 
shame  !  shame  I 

So  would  have  said  the  scholar,  for  he  had  a  true  senti- 
ment for  nature,  if  the  bridge  had  not  clean  gone  out  of 
his  head. 

Wandering  alone,  he  came  at  last  to  the  most  um- 
bi'ageous  and  sequestered  bank  of  the  wide  water,  closed 
round  on  every  side  by  brushwood,  or  still  patriarchal 
trees. 

Suddenly  he  arrested  his  steps — an  idea  struck  him  — 
one  of  those  odd,  whimsical,  grotesque  ideas  which  often 
when  we  are  alone  come  across  us,  even  in  our  quietest 
or  most  anxious  moods.  Was  his  infirmity  really  in- 
curable ?  Elocution  masters  had  said  "  Certainly  not ;  " 
but  they  had  done  him  no  good.  Yet  had  not  the  great- 
est orator  the  world  ever  knew  a  defect  in  utterance  1  He 
too,  Demosthenes,  had,  no  doubt,  paid  fees  to  elocution 
masters,  the  best  in  Athens,  where  elocution  masters  must 
have  studied  their  art  ad  unguem,  and  the  defect  had 
baffled  them.  But  did  Demosthenes  despair  ?  No,  ne 
resolved  to  cure  himself.  —  How  ?  Was.it  not  one  of  his 
methods  to  fill  his  mouth  with  pebbles,  and  practice  man- 
fully to  the  roaring  sea  ?  George  Morley  had  never  tried 
■  the  effect  of  pebbles.  Was  there  any  virtue  in  them  ? 
Why  not  try  ?  No  sea  there,  it  is  true  ;  but  a  sea  was 
only  useful  as  representing  the  noise  of  a  stormy  demo- 
cratic audience.     To  represent  a  peaceful  congregation 


108  WHAT    WILL    HEDO    WITH    IT? 

that  still  sheet  of  water  would  do  as  well.  Pebbles  there 
were  in  plenty  just  bj  that  gravelly  cove,  near  which  a 
young  pike  lay  sunning  his  green  back.  Half  in  jest, 
half  in  earnest,  the  scholar  picked  up  a  handful  of  peb- 
bles, wiped  them  from  sand  and  mould,  inserted  them  be- 
tween his  teeth  cautiously,  and,  looking  round  to  assure 
himself  that  none  were  by,  began  an  extempore  discourse. 
So  interested  did  he  become  in  that  classical  experiment, 
that  he  might  have  tortured  the  air  and  astonished  the 
magpies  (three  of  whom  from  a  neighboring  thicket 
listened  perfectly  spell-bound)  for  more  than  half  an 
hour,  when,  seized  with  shame  at  the  ludicrous  impotence 
of  his  exertions — with  despair  that  so  wretched  a  barrier 
should  stand  between  his  mind  and  its  expression  —  he 
flung  away  the  pebbles,  and,  sinking  on  the  ground,  he 
fairly  wept — wept  like  a  baffled  child. 

The  fact  was,  that  Morley  had  really  the  temperament 
of  an  orator;  he  had  the  orator's  gifts  in  warmth  of 
passion,  rush  of  thought,  logical  arrangement ;  there  was 
in  him  the  genius  of  a  great  preacher.  He  felt  it  —  he 
knew  it ;  and  in  that  despair  which  only  Genius  knows, 
when  some  pitiful  cause  obstructs  its  energies  and  strikes 
down  its  powers  —  making  a  confidant  of  Solitude  —  he 
wept  loud  and  freely. 

"Do  not  despond,  Sir;  I  undertake  to  cure  you,"  said 
a  voice  behind. 

George  started  up  in  confusion.  A  man,  elderly,  but 
fresh  and  vigorous,  stood  beside  him,  in  a  light  fustian 
jacket,  a  blue  apron,  and  with  rushes  in  his  hands,  \\hich 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  109 

he  continued  to  plait  together  nimbly  and  deftly  as  he 
bowed  to  the  startled  scholar. 

"  I  was  in  the  shade  of  the  thicket  yonder,  Sir  ;  pardon 
aie,  I  could  not  help  hearing  you." 

The  Oxonian  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  stared  at  the  man 
yith  a  vague  impression  that  he  had  seen  him  before  — 
When?  Where? 

"You  can  cure  me,"  he  stuttered  out;  "what  of?  — 
the  folly  of  trying  to  speak  in  public.  Thank  you,  I  am 
cured." 

"  Nay,  Sir,  you  see  before  you  a  man  who  can  make 
you  a  very  good  speaker.  Your  voice  is  naturally  fine. 
I  repeat  I  can  cure  a  defect  which  is  not  in  the  organ, 
but  in  the  management." 

"  You  can  I  you  —  who  and  what  are  you  ?  " 

"A  basket-maker.  Sir  ;  I  hope  for  your  custom." 

"  Surely  this  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  seen  you  ?  " 

"  True ;  you  once  kindly  suffered  me  to  borrow  a 
resting-place  on  your  father's  land.  One  good  turn 
deserves  another." 

At  that  moment  Sir  Isaac  peered  through  the  brambles, 
and,  restored  to  his  original  whiteness,  and  relieved  from 
his  false,  horned  ears,  marched  gravely  toward  the  water, 
sniffed  at  the  scholar,  slightly  wagged  his  tail,  and  buried 
himself  among  the  reeds  in  search  of  a  water-rat  he  had 
therein  disturbed  a  week  before,  and  always  expected  to 
find  again. 

The  sight  of  the  dog  immediately  cleared  up  the  cloud 

11—10  2h 


110  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

in  the  scholar's  memory ;  but  with  recognition  came  back 
a  keen  curiosity  and  a  sharp  pang  of  remorse. 

"And  your  little  girl?"  he  asked,  looking  down 
abashed. 

"  Better  than  she  was  when  we  last  met.  Providence 
is  so  kind  to  us  " 

Poor  Waife,  he  never  guessed  that  to  the  person  he 
thus  revealed  himself  he  owed  the  grief  for  Sophy's 
abduction.  He  divined  no  reason  for  the  scholar's 
flushing  cheek  and  embarrassed  manner. 

"  Yes,  Sir,  we  have  just  settled  in  this  neighborhood. 
I  have  a  pretty  cottage  yonder  at  the  outskirts  of  the 
village,  and  near  the  park-pales.  I  recognized  you  at 
once  ;  and  as  I  heard  you  just  now,  I  called  to  mind  that 
when  we  met  before,  you  said  your  calling  should  be  the 
Church,  were  it  not  for  your  difficulty  in  utterance  ;  and 
I  said  to  myself,  '  No  bad  things  those  pebbles,  if  his 
utterance  were  thick,  which  it  is  not;'  and  I  have  not 
a  doubt.  Sir,  that  the  true  fault  of  Demosthenes,  whom  I 
presume  you  were  imitating,  was  that  he  spoke  through 
his  nose." 

"  Eh  I  "  said  the  scholar,  "  through  his  nose  ?  I  never 
knew  that !  —  and  I  —  " 

"  And  you  are  trying  to  speak  without  lungs ;  that  is, 
without  air  in  them.     You  don't  smoke,  I  presume  ?  " 

"  No  —  certainly  not  " 

"  You  must  learn  —  speak  between  each  slow  puff  of 
your  pipe.  All  you  want  is  time,  time  to  quit  the  nerves, 
time  to  think,  time  to  breathe.     The  moment  you  begin 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  Hi 

to  stammer  —  stop  —  fill  the  lungs  thus,  then  try  again  I 
It  is  only  a  clever  man  who  can  learn  to  write  —  that  is, 
to  compose  J  but  any  fool  can  be  taught  to  speak. — 
Courage  I " 

"  If  you  really  can  teach  me,"  cried  the  learned  man, 
forgetting  all  self-reproach  for  his  betrayal  of  Waife  to 
Mrs.  Crane  in  the  absorbing  interest  of  the  hope  that 
sprang  up  within  him  —  "  If  you  can  teach  me  —  if  I  can 
but  con  —  con  —  con  —  conq  —  " 

"Slowly  —  slowly  —  breath  and  time;  take  a  whiff 
from  my  pipe  —  that's  right.  Yes,  you  can  conquer  the 
impediment." 

*'  Then  I  will  be  the  best  friend  to  you  that  man  ever 
had.     There's  my  hand  on  it.'^ 

"  I  take  it,  but  I  ask  leave  to  change  the  parties  in  the 
contract.  I  don't  want  a  friend  —  I  don't  deserve  one. 
You'll  be  a  friend  to  my  little  girl  instead ;  and  if  ever  I 
ask  you  to  help  me  in  aught  for  her  welfare  and  happi- 
ness—  " 

"  I  will  help,  heart  and  soul.  Slight,  indeed,  any  service 
to  her  or  to  you  compared  with  such  service  to  me. 
Free  this  wretched  tongue  from  its  stammer,  and  thought 
and  zeal  will  not  stammer  whenever  you  say,  '  Keep  your 
promise,'  I  am  so  glad  your  little  girl  is  still  with  you  I" 

"Waife  looked  surprised — "  Is  still  with  me — why  not  ?" 

The  scholar  bit  his  tongue.  That  was  not  the  moment 
to  confess  ;  it  might  destroy  all  Waife's  confidence  in  him. 
He  would  do  so  later. 

*'  When  shall  I  begin  my  lesson  ?  " 


112  WHAT     WILL    HE    PO    WITH    IT? 

"  Now,  if  you  like.  But  have  you  a  book  in  your 
pocket  ?  " 

"I  always  have." 

"Not  Greek,  I  hope,  Sir." 

"  No,  a  volume  of  Barrow's  Sermons.  Lord  Chatham 
recommended  those  sermons  to  his  great  son  as  a  study 
for  eloquence." 

"  Good  !  Will  you  lend  me  that  volume.  Sir,  and  now 
for  it ;  listen  to  me  :  one  sentence  at  a  time  —  draw  your 
breath  when  I  do," 

The  three  magpies  pricked  up  their  ears  again,  and,  as 
they  listened,  marvelled  much. 


CHAPTER    III. 

Could  we  know  by  what  strange  circumstances  a  man's  genius 
became  prepared  for  practical  success,  we  should  discover  that 
the  most  serviceable  items  in  his  education  were  never  entered 
in  the  bills  which  his  father  paid  for  it. 

At  the  end  of  the  very  first  lesson  George  Morley  saw, 
that  all  the  elocution-masters  to  whose  skill  he  had  been 
consigned  were  blunderers  in  comparison  to  the  basket- 
maker. 

"Waife  did  not  puzzle  him  with  scientific  theories.  All 
that  the  great  comedian  required  of  him  was  to  observe 
and  to  imitate.  Observation,  imitation,  lo  !  the  ground- 
work of  all  art  I  the  primal  element  of  all  genius  I     Not 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  113 

there,  indeed,  to  halt,  but  there  ever  to  commence.  What 
remains  to  carry  on  the  intellect  to  mastery  ?  Two  steps 
—  to  reflect,  to  reproduce.  Observation,  imitation,  re- 
tiection,  reproduction.  In  these  stands  a  mind  complete 
and  consummate,  fit  to  cope  with  all  labor,  achieve  all 
success. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  lesson  George  Morley  felt  that 
his  cure  was  possible.  Making  an  appointment  for  the 
next  day  at  the  same  place,  he  came  thither  stealthily, 
and  so  on  day  by  day.  At  the  end  of  a  week  he  felt  that 
ttie  cure  was  nearly  sure  ;  at  the  end  of  a  month  the  cure 
was  self-evident.  He  should  live  to  preach  the  Word. 
True,  that  he  practised  incessantly  in  private.  Not  a 
moment  in  his  waking  hours  that  the  one  thought,  one 
object,  were  absent  from  his  mind  ;  true,  that  with  all  his 
patience,  all  his  toil,  the  obstacle  was  yet  serious,  might 
never  be  entirely  overcome.  Nervous  hurry  —  rapidity 
of  action  —  vehemence  of  feeling  brought  back,  might, 
at  unguarded  moments,  always  bring  back  the  gasping 
breath — the  emptied  lungs  —  the  struggling  utterance. 
But  the  relapse  —  rarer  and  rarer  now  with  each  trial  — 
would  be  at  last  scarce  a  drawback.  "  Nay,"  quoth  Waife, 
"  instead  of  a  drawback,  become  but  an  orator,  and  yott 
will  convert  a  defect  into  a  beauty." 

Thus  justly  sanguine  of  the  accomplishment  of  his  lifers 
chosen  object,  the  scholar's  gratitude  to  Waife  was  un- 
speakable. And  seeing  the  man  daily  at  least  in  his  own 
cottage —  Sophy's  health  restored  to  her  cheeks,  smiles  to 
her  lip,  and  cheered  at  her  light  fancy-work  beside  her 
10*    '  H 


114  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

grandsire's  elbow-chair,  with  fairy  legends  instilling  per- 
haps golden  truths — seeing  Waife  thus,  the  scholar 
mingled  with  gratitude  a  strange  tenderness  of  respect. 
He  knew  naught  of  the  vagrant's  past  —  his  reason  might 
admit  that  in  a  position  of  life  so  at  variance  with  the 
gifts  natural  and  acquired  of  the  singular  basket-maker, 
there  was  something  mysterious  and  suspicious.  But  he 
blushed  to  think  that  he  had  ever  ascribed  to  a  flawed  or 
wandering  intellect  the  eccentricities  of  glorious  Humor — 
abetted  an  attempt  to  separate  an  old  age  so  innocent 
and  genial  from  a  childhood  so  fostered  and  so  fostering. 
And  sure  I  am  that  if  the  whole  world  had  risen  up  to 
point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  the  one-eyed  cripple,  George 
Morley,  the  well-born  gentleman  —  the  refined  scholar 
—  the  spotless  Churchman  —  would  have  given  him 
his  arm  to  lean  upon,  and  walked  by  his  side  unashamed 


CHAPTER   lY. 

To  judge  Imman  cliaracter  rightly,  a  man  may  sometimes   have 
very  small  experience,  provided  he  has  a  very  large  heart. 

NuMA  PoMPiLius  did  not  more  conceal  from  notice  the 
lessons  he  received  from  Egeria  than  did  George  Morley 
those  which  he  received  from  the  basket-maker.  Natural, 
indeed,  must  be  his  wish  for  secresy  —  pretty  story  it 
would  be  for  Humberston,  its  future  rector  learning  now 
to  preach  a  sermon  from  an  old  basket-maker  I     But  he 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  115 

had  a  nobler  and  more  imperious  motive  for  discretion — 
his  honor  was  engaged  to  it.  Waife  exacted  a  promise 
that  he  would  regard  the  intercourse  between  them  as 
strictly  private  and  confidential. 

"  It  is  for  my  sake  I  ask  this,"  said  Waife,  frankly, 
"though  I  might  say  it  was  for  yours."  The  Oxonian 
promised,  and  was  bound.  Fortunately,  Lady  Montfort 
quitting  the  Great  House  the  very  day  after  George  had 
first  encountered  the  basket-maker,  and  writing  word  that 
she  should  not  return  to  it  for  some  weeks  —  George  was 
at  liberty  to  avail  himself  of  hev  lord's  general  invitation 
to  make  use  of  Montfort  Court  as  his  lodgings  when  in 
the  neighborhood,  which  the  proprieties  of  the  w^orld 
would  not  have  allowed  him  to  do  while  Lady  Montfort 
was  there  without  either  host  or  female  guests.  Accord- 
ingly, he  took  up  his  abode  in  a  corner  of  the  vast  palace, 
and  was  easily  enabled,  when  he  pleased,  to  traverse  un- 
observed the  solitudes  of  the  park,  gain  the  water-side, 
or  stroll  thence  through  the  thick  copse  leading  to 
Waife's  cottage,  which  bordered  the  park-pales,  solitary, 
sequestered,  beyond  sight  of  the  neighboring  village. 
The  great  house  all  to  himself,  George  was  brought  in 
contact  with  no  one  to  whom,  in  unguarded  moments,  he 
could  even  have  let  out  a  hint  of  his  new  acquaintance, 
except  the  clergyman  of  the  parish,  a  worthy  man,  wiio 
lived  in  strict  retirement  upon  a  scanty  stipend.  For  the 
Marquis  was  the  lay  impropriator ;  the  living  was  there- 
fore but  a  very  poor  vicarage,  below  the  acceptance  of  a 
Vipout  or  a  Yipont's  tutor — sure  to  go  to  a  quiet  worthy 


116  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

man  forced  to  live  in  strict  retirement.  George  saw  too 
little  of  this  clergyman  either  to  let  out  secrets  or  pick 
up  information.  From  him,  however,  George  did  inci- 
dentally learn  that  Waife  had  some  months  previously 
visited  the  village,  and  proposed  to  the  bailiff  to  take  the 
cottage  and  osier  land,  which  he  now  rented  —  that  he 
represented  himself  as  having  known  an  old  basket-maker 
who  had  dwelt  there  many  years  ago,  and  had  learned  the 
basket  craft  of  that  long  deceased  operative.  As  he 
offered  a  higher  rent  than  the  bailiff  could  elsewhere  ob- 
tain, and  as  the  bailiff  was  desirous  to  get  credit  with 
Mr.  Carr  Yipont  for  improving  the  property,  by  reviving 
thereon  an  art  which  had  fallen  into  desuetude,  the  bar- 
gain was  struck,  provided  the  candidate,  being  a  stranger 
to  the  place,  could  furnish  the  bailiff  with  any  satisfactory 
reference.  Waife  had  gone  away,  saying  he  should 
shortly  return  with  the  requisite  testimonial.  In  fact, 
poor  man,  as  we  know,  he  was  then  counting  on  a  good 
word  from  Mr.  Hartopp.  He  had  not,  however,  returned 
for  some  months.  The  cottage  having  been  meanwhile 
wanted  for  the  temporary  occupation  of  an  under  game- 
keeper, while  his  own  was  under  repair,  fortunately  re- 
mained unlet.  Waife,  on  returning,  accompanied  by  his 
little  girl,  had  referred  the  bailiff  to  a  respectable  house- 
agent  and  collector  of  street  rents  in  Bloomsbury,  who 
wrote  word  that  a  lady,  then  abroad,  had  authorized  him, 
as  the  agent  employed  in  the  management  of  a  house 
property  from  which  much  of  her  income  was  derived, 
not  only  to  state  that  Waife  was  a  very  intelligent  man 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  117 

likely  to  do  well  whatever  he  undertook,  but  also  to 
guarantee,  if  required,  the  punctual  payment  of  the  rent 
for  any  holding  of  which  he  became  the  occupier.  On 
this  the  agreement  was  concluded  —  the  basket-maker  in 
stalled.  In  the  immediate  neighborhood  there  was  no 
custom  for  basket-work,  but  Waife's  performances  were 
so  neat,  and  some  so  elegant  and  fanciful,  that  he  had  no 
difficulty  in  contracting  with  a  large  tradesman  (not  at 
Humberston,  but  a  more  distant  and  yet  more  thriving 
town  about  twenty  miles  off),  for  as  much  of  such  work 
as  he  could  supply.  Each  week  the  carrier  took  his 
goods  and  brought  back  the  payments  ;  the  profits  amply 
sufficed  for  "Waife's  and  Sophy's  daily  bread,  with  even 
more  than  the  surplus  set  aside  for  the  rent.  For  the 
rest,  the  basket-maker's  cottage  being  at  the  farthest 
outskirts  of  the  straggling  village  inhabited  but  by  a 
laboring  peasantry,  his  way  of  life  was  not  much  known, 
nor  much  inquired  into.  He  seemed  a  harmless  hard- 
working man  —  never  seen  at  the  beer-house,  always  seen 
with  his  neatly-dressed  little  grandchild  in  his  quiet  cor- 
ner at  church  on  Sundays  —  a  civil,  well-behaved  man 
who  touched  his  hat  to  the  bailiff,  and  took  it  off  to  the 
vicar. 

An  idea  prevailed  that  the  basket-maker  had  spent 
much  of  his  life  in  foreign  parts,  favored  partly  by  a  so- 
briety of  habits  which  is  not  altogether  national,  partly 
by  soraeiLing  in  his  appearance,  which,  without  being 
above  his  lowly  calling,  did  not  seem  quite  in  keeping 
srith    it  —  outlandish  in    short  —  but  principally  by  the 


118  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

fact  that  he  had  received  since  his  arrival  two  letters  with 
a  foreign  postmark.  The  idea  befriended  the  old  man  ; 
allowing  it  to  be  inferred  that  he  had  probably  outlived 
the  friends  he  had  formerly  left  behind  him  in  England, 
and  on  his  return,  been  sufficiently  fatigued  with  his  ram- 
bles to  drop  contented  in  any  corner  of  his  native  soil, 
wherein  he  could  find  a  quiet  home,  and  earn  by  light 
toil  a  decent  livelihood. 

George,  though  naturally  curious  to  know  what  had 
been  the  result  of  his  communication  to  Mrs.  Crane  — 
whether  it  had  led  to  Waife's  discovery  or  caused  him 
annoyance,  had  hitherto,  however,  shrunk  from  touching 
upon  a  topic  which  subjected  himself  to  an  awkward  con- 
fession of  officious  intermeddling,  and  might  appear  an 
indirect  and  indelicate  mode  of  prying  into  painful  family 
affairs.  But  one  day  he  received  a  letter  from  his  father 
which  disturbed  him  greatly,  and  induced  him  to  break 
ground  and  speak  to  his  preceptor  frankly.  In  this  letter 
the  elder  Mr.  Morley  mentioned  incidentally,  among  other 
scraps  of  local  news,  that  he  had  seen  Mr.  Hartopp,  who 
was  rather  out  of  sorts,  his  good  heart  not  having  reco- 
vered the  shock  of  having  been  abominably  "  taken  in  " 
by  an  impostor  for  whom  he  had  conceived  a  great  fancy, 
and  to  whose  discovery  George  himself  had  providentially 
led  (the  father  referring  here  to  what  George  had  told 
him  of  his  first  meeting  with  Waife,  and  his  visit  to  Mrs. 
Crane),  the  impostor,  it  seemed,  from  what  Mr.  Hartopp 
let  fall,  not  being  a  little  queer  in  the  head  —  as  George 
had  been  led  to  surmise — but  a  very  bad  character.    "In 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  119 

fact,"  added  the  elder  Morley,  "a,  character  so  bad,  that 
Mr.  Hartopp  was  too  glad  to  give  up  the  child,  whom 
the  man  appears  to  have  abducted,  to  her  lawful  pro- 
tectors ;  and  I  suspect  from  what  Hartopp  said,  though 
he  does  not  like  to  own  that  he  was  taken  in  to  so  gross 
a  degree,  that  he  had  been  actually  introducing  to  his 
fellow-townsfolk,  and  conferring  familiarly,  with  a  regular 
jail-bird — perhaps  a  burglar.  How  lucky  for  that  poor, 
soft-headed,  excellent  Jos  Hartopp  —  whom  it  is  posi- 
tively as  inhuman  to  take  in  as  if  he  were  a  born  natural 
—  that  the  lady  you  saw  arrived  in  time  to  expose  the 
snares  laid  for  his  benevolent  credulity.  But  for  that, 
Jos  might  have  taken  the  fellow  into  his  own  house  — 
(just  like  him  !) — and  been  robbed  by  this  time — perhaps 
murdered  —  Heaven  knows  !  " 

Incredulous  and  indignant,  and  longing  to  be  empow- 
ered to  vindicate  his  friend's  fair  name,  George  seized  his 
hat,  and  strode  quick  along  the  path  toward  the  basket- 
maker's  cottage.  As  he  gained  the  water-side  he  per- 
ceived Waife  himself,  seated  on  a  mossy  bank,  under  a 
gnarled  fantastic  thorn-tree,  watching  a  deer  as  it  came 
to  drink,  and  whistUng  a  soft  mellow  tune  —  the  tune  of 
an  old  English  border-song.  The  deer  lifted  its  antlers 
from  the  water,  and  turned  its  large  bright  eyes  toward 
the  opposite  bank,  whence  the  note  came  —  listening  and 
wistful.  As  George's  step  crushed  the  wild  thyme,  which 
the  thorn-tree  shadowed  —  "Hush,"  said  Waife,  "and 
mark  how  the  rudest  musical  sound  can  affect  the  brute 
treation."     He  resumed  the  whistle  —  a  clearer,  louder, 


120  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

wilder  tune  —  that  of  a  lively  hunting-song.  The  deer 
turned  quickly  round — uneasy,  restless,  tossed  its  antlers, 
and  bounded  through  the  fern.  Waife  again  changed 
the  key  of  his  primitive  music  —  a  melancholy  belling 
note,  like  the  belling  itself  of  a  melancholy  hart,  but 
more  modulated  into  sweetness.  The  deer  arrested  its 
flight,  and,  lured  by  the  mimic  sound,  returned  toward 
the  water-side,  slow  and  stately. 

"  I  don't  think  the  story  of  Orpheus  charming  the 
brutes  was  a  fable  —  do  you.  Sir  ?  "  said  Waife.  "  The 
rabbits  about  here  know  me  already ;  and  if  I  had  but  a 
fiddle  I  would  undertake  to  make  friends  with  that  re- 
served and  unsocial  water-rat,  on  whom  Sir  Isaac  in  vain 
endeavors  at  present  to  force  his  acquaintance.  Man 
commits  a  great  mistake  in  not  cultivating  more  intimate 
and  amicable  relations  with  the  other  branches  of  earth's 
great  family.  Few  of  them  not  more  amusing  than  we 
are  —  naturally,  for  they  have  not  our  cares.  And  such 
variety  of  character,  too,  where  you  would  least  ex- 
pect it!" 

George  Morley.  "  Yery  true  :  Cowper  noticed  marked 
differences  of  character  in  his  favorite  hares." 

Waife.  "  Hares !  I  am  sure  that  there  are  not  two 
house-flies  on  a  window-pane,  two  minnows  in  that  water, 
that  would  not  present  to  us  interesting  points  of  con- 
trast as  to  temper  and  disposition.  If  house-flies  and 
minnows  could  but  coin  money,  or  set  up  a  manufacture 
—  contrive  something,  in  short,  to  buy  or  sell  attractive 
to  Anglo-Saxon  enterprise  and  intelligence  —  of  course 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  121 

we  should  soon  have  diplomatic  relations  with  them  ;  and 
our  dispatches  and  newspapers  would  instruct  us  to  a  T 
in  the  characters  and  propensities  of  their  leading  per- 
sonages. But  where  man  has  no  pecuniary  nor  ambitious 
interests  at  stake  in  his  commerce  with  any  class  of  his 
fellow-creatures,  his  information  about  them  is  extremely 
confused  and  superficial.  The  best  naturalists  are  mere 
generalizers,  and  think  they  have  done  a  vast  deal  when 
they  classify  a  species.  What  should  we  know  about 
mankind  if  we  had  only  a  naturahst's  definition  of  man  ? 
We  only  know  mankind  by  knocking  classification  on  the 
head,  and  studying  each  man  as  a  class  in  himself.  Com- 
pare Bufifon  with  Shakspeare  !  Alas  !  Sir — can  we  never 
have  a  Shakspeare  for  house-flies  and  minnows  ? " 

George  MoRLEY.  "With  all  respect  for  minnows  and 
house-flies,  if  we  found  another  Shakspeare,  he  might  be 
better  employed,  like  his  predecessor,  in  selecting  indivi- 
dualities from  the  classifications  of  man." 

Waife.  "Being  yourself  a  man,  you  think  so  —  a 
house-fly  might  be  of  a  different  opinion.  But  permit 
me,  at  least,  to  doubt  whether  such  an  investigator  would 
be  better  employed  in  reference  to  his  own  happiness, 
though  I  grant  that  he  would  be  so  in  reference  to  your 
intellectual  amusement  and  social  interests.  Poor  Shaks- 
peare !     How  much  he  must  have  suffered  ! " 

George  Morley.  "  You  mean  that  he  must  have  been 
racked  by  the  passions  he  describes — bruised  by  collision 
with  the  hearts  he  dissects.  That  is  not  necessary  to 
genius.     The  judge  on  his  bench,  summing  up  evidence, 

IL  — 11 


122  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

and  charging  the  jury,  has  no  need  to  have  shared  the 
temptations,  or  been  privy  to  the  acts,  of  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar.     Yet  how  consummate  may  be  his  analysis  ! " 

"No,"  cried  Waife,  roughly.  "No.  Your  illustration 
destroys  your  argument.  The  judge  knows  nothing  of 
the  prisoner  !  There  are  the  circumstances  —  there  is  the 
law.  By  these  he  generalizes — by  these  he  judges— riglit 
or  wrong.  But  of  the  individual  at  the  bar — of  the  world 
—  the  tremendous  world  within  that  individual  h&art — I 
repeat — he  knows  nothing.  Did  he  know,  law  and  circum- 
stance might  vanish  —  human  justice  would  be  paralyzed. 
Ho,  there  !  place  that  swart-visaged,  ill-looking  foreigner 
in  the  dock,  and  let  counsel  open  the  case — hear  the  wit- 
nesses depose  !  Oh,  horrible  wretch  !  —  a  murderer  — 
unmanly  murderer  !  —  a  defenseless  woman  smothered  by 
caitiff  hands  !  Hang  him  up  —  hang  him  up  !  '  Softly,' 
whispers  the  Poet,  and  lifts  the  vail  from  the  Assassin's 
heart.  '  Lo  1  it  is  Othello  the  Moor  !  What  jury  now 
dare  find  that  criminal  guilty  ?  —  what  judge  now  will  put 
on  the  black  cap  ?  —  who  now  says,  '  Hang  him  up  — 
hang  him  up  ?  " 

With  such  lifelike  force  did  the  Comedian  vent  this 
passionate  outburst  that  he  thrilled  his  listener  with  an 
awe  akin  to  that  which  the  convicted  Moor  gathers  round 
himself  at  the  close  of  the  sublime  drama.  Even  Sir 
Isaac  was  startled  ;  and,  leaving  his  hopeless  pursuit  of 
the  water-rat,  uttered  a  low  bark,  came  to  his  master,  and 
looked  into  his  face  with  solemn  curiosity. 

Waife  (relapsing  into  colloquial  accents).    "  Why  do 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  123 

we  sympathize  with  those  above  us  more  than  with  those 
below  ?  why  with  the  sorrows  of  a  king  rather  than  those 
of  a  beggar?  why  does  Sir  Isaac  sympathize  with  me 
more  than  (let  that  water-rat  vex  him  ever  so  much)  I 
can  possibly  sympathize  with  him  ?  Whatever  be  the 
cause,  see  at  least,  Mr.  Morley,  one  reason  why  a  poor 
creature  like  myself  finds  it  better  employment  to  cultivate 
the  intimacy  of  brutes  than  to  prosecute  the  study  of  men. 
Among  then,  all  are  too  high  to  sympathize  with  me  ;  but 
I  have  known  two  friends  who  never  injured  nor  betrayed 
me.  Sir  Isaac  is  one,  Wamba  was  another.  Wamba,  Sir, 
the  native  of  a  remote  district  of  the  globe  (two  friends 
civilized  Europe  is  not  large  enough  to  afford  to  any  one 
man). — Wamba,  Sir,  was  less  gifted  by  nature,  less  refined 
by  education  than  Sir  Isaac  ;  but  he  was  a  safe  and  trust- 
worthy companion.    Wamba,  Sir,  was  —  an  opossum." 

George  Morley.  "Alas,  my  dear  Mr.  Waife,  I  fear  that 
men  must  have  behaved  very  ill  to  you." 

Waife.  "  I  have  no  right  to  complain.  I  have  behaved 
very  ill  to  myself.  When  a  man  is  his  own  enemy,  he  is 
very  unreasonable  if  he  expect  other  men  to  be  his  bene- 
factors." 

George  Morley  (with  emotion).  "Listen,  I  have  a 
confession  to  make  to  you.  I  fear  I  have  done  you  an 
injury  —  where,  officiously,  I  meant  to  do  a  kindness." 
The  scholar  hurried  on  to  narrate  the  particulars  of  his 
visit  to  Mrs.  Crane.  On  concluding  the  recital,  he  added 
—  "When  again  I  met  you  here,  and  learned  that  your 
Sophy  was  with  you,  I  felt  inexpressibly  relieved.    It  wac 


124  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

clear  then,  I  thought,  that  your  grandchild  had  been  left 
to  your  care  unmolested,  either  that  you  had  proved  not 
to  be  the  person  of  whom  the  parties  were  in  search,  or 
family  affairs  had  been  so  explained  and  reconciled,  that 
my  interference  had  occasioned  you  no  harm.  But  to-day 
I  have  a  letter  from  my  father  which  disquiets  me  much. 
It  seems  that  the  persons  in  question  did  visit  Gatesboro' 
and  have  maligned  you  to  Mr.  Hartopp.  Understand  me, 
I  ask  for  no  confidence  which  you  may  be  unfailing  to 
give ;  but  if  you  will  arm  me  with  the  power  to  vindicate 
your  character  from  aspersions  which  I  need  not  your 
assurance  to  hold  unjust  and  false,  I  will  not  rest  till  that 
task  be  triumphantly  accomplished." 

Waife  (in  a  tone  calm  but  dejected).  "  I  thank  you 
with  all  my  heart.  But  there  is  nothing  to  be  done.  I 
am  glad  that  the  subject  did  not  start  up  between  us  until 
such  little  service  as  I  could  render  you,  Mr.  Morley,  was 
pretty  well  over.  It  would  have  been  a  pity  if  you  had 
been  compelled  to  drop  all  communication  with  a  man  of 
attainted  character  before  you  had  learned  how  to  manage 
the  powers  that  will  enable  you  hereafter  to  exhort 
sinners  worse  than  I  have  been.  Hush,  Sir  !  you  feel 
that,  at  least  now,  I  am  an  inoffensive  old  man  —  labor- 
ing for  a  humble  livelihood.  "  You  will  not  repeat  here 
what  you  may  have  heard,  or  yet  hear,  to  the  discredit  of 
my  former  life  ?  You  will  not  send  me  and  my  grand- 
child forth  from  our  obscure  refuge  to  confront  a  world 
with  which  we  have  no  strength  to  cope  ?  And,  believing 
this,  it  only  remains  for  me  to  say  fare-you-well,  Sir  " 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  12^ 

"  I  should  deserve  to  lose  spe — spe — speech  altogether,' 
cried  the  Oxonian,  gasping  and  stammering  fearfully  as 
he  caught  TVaife  firmly  by  the  arm,  "if  I  suffered  --  sufif 
—  suff— suff— " 

"  One,  two  1  take  time.  Sir  1 "  said  the  Comedian,  softly. 
-And  with  a  sweet  patience  he  reseated  himself  on  tLo 
bank. 

The  Oxonian  threw  himself  at  length  by  the  outcast's 
side  ;  and  with  the  noble  tenderness  of  a  nature  as  chival- 
rously Christian  as  Heaven  ever  gave  to  priest,  he  rested 
his  folded  hands  upon  Waife's  shoulder,  and  looking  him 
full  and  close  in  the  face,  said  thus,  slowly,  deliberately, 
not  a  stammer : 

"  You  do  not  guess  what  you  have  done  for  me  ;  you 
have  secured  to  me  a  home  and  a  career  —  the  wife  of 
whom  I  must  otherwise  have  despaired  —  the  divine 
vocation  on  which  all  my  earthly  hopes  were  set,  and 
which  I  was  on  the  eve  of  renouncing  —  do  not  think 
these  are  obligations  which  can  be  lightly  shaken  ofif.  If 
there  are  circumstances  which  forbid  me  to  disabuse  others 
of  impressions  which  wrong  you,  imagine  not  that  their 
false  notions  will  affect  my  own  gratitude — my  own  respect 
for  you  ! " 

"Nay,  Sir  I  they  ought  —  they  must.  Perhaps  not 
your  exaggerated  gratitude  for  a  service  which  you  should 
not,  however,  measure  by  its  effects  on  yourself,  but  by 
the  slightness  of  the  trouble  it  gave  to  me  ;  not  perhaps 
your  gratitude  —  but  your  respect,  yes." 

"  I  tell  you  no  I  Do  you  fancy  that  I  cannot  judge  of 
11*  2i 


126  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

a  man's  nature  without  calling  on  liim  to  trust  me  with 
all  the  secrets  —  all  the  errors,  if  jou  will,  of  his  past  life  ? 
Will  not  the  calling  to  which  I  may  now  hold  myself 
destined  give  me  power  and  commandment  to  absolve  all 
those  who  truly  repent  and  unfeignedly  believe  ?  Oh,  Mr. 
Waife  !  if  in  earlier  days  you  have  sinned,  do  you  not 
repent  ?  and  how  often,  in  many  a  lovely  gentle  sentence 
dropped  unawares  from  your  lips,  have  I  had  cause  to 
know  that  you  unfeigned'ly  believe  !  Were  I  now  clothed 
Avith  sacred  authority,  could  I  not  absolve  you  as  a  priest  ? 
Think  you  that,  in  the  meanwhile,  I  dare  judge  you  as  a 
man  ?  I — life's  new  recruit,  guarded  hitherto  from  tempta- 
tion by  careful  parents  and  favoring  fortune  —  /  presume 
to  judge,  and  judge  harshly,  the  gray-haired  veteran, 
wearied  by  the  march,  wounded  in  the  battle  I " 

"You  are  a  noble-hearted  human  being,"  said  Waife, 
greatly  affected.  "And  —  mark  my  words  —  a  mantle 
of  charity  so  large  you  will  live  to  wear  as  a  robe  of 
honor.  But  hear  me.  Sir !  Mr.  Hartopp  also  is  a  man 
infinitely  charitable,  benevolent,  kindly,  and,  through  all 
his  simplicity,  acutely  shrewd.  Mr.  Hartopp,  on  hearing 
what  was  said  against  me,  deemed  me  unfit  to  retain  my 
grandchild,  resigned  the  trust  I  had  confided  to  him,  and 
would  have  given  me  alms,  no  doubt,  had  I  asked  them, 
but  not  his  hand.  Take  your  hands,  Sir,  from  my 
shoulder,  lest  the  touch  sully  you." 

George  did  take  his  hands  from  the  vagrant's  shoulder, 
but  it  was  to  grasp  the  hand  that  waived  them  off,  and 
struggled  to  escape  the  pressure.     "You  are  innocent, 


WHAT    WILL     HE     DO     WITH     IT?  127 

yon  are  innocent !  forgive  me  that  I  spoke  to  you  of  re 
pentance,  as  if  you  bad  been  guilty.  I  feel  you  are 
innocent  —  feel  it  by  my  own  heart.  You  turn  away.  I 
defy  you  to  say  that  you  are  guilty  of  what  has  been  laid 
to  your  charge,  of  what  has  darkened  your  good  name, 
of  what  Mr.  Hartopp  believed  to  your  prejudice.  Look 
rae  in  the  face  and  say,  '  I  am  not  innocent,  I  have  not 
been  belied.'" 

"Waife  remained  voiceless  —  motionless. 

The  young  man,  in  whose  nature  lay  yet  unproved  all 
those  grand  qualities  of  heart,  without  which  never  was 
there  a  grand  orator,  a  grand  preacher  —  qualities  which 
grasp  the  results  of  argument,  and  arrive  at  the  end  of 
elaborate  reasoning  by  sudden  impulse  —  here  released 
Waife's  hand,  rose  to  his  feet,  and,  facing  Waife,  as  the 
old  man  sate  with  face  averted,  eyes  downcast,  breast 
heaving,  said,  loftily, 

"  Forget  that  I  may  soon  be  the  Christian  minister 
whose  duty  bows  his  ear  to  the  lips  of  shame  and  guilt — 
whose  hand,  when  it  points  to  Heaven,  no  mortal  touch 
can  sully — whose  sublimest  post  is  by  the  sinner's  side. 
Look  on  me  but  as  man  and  gentleman.  See,  I  now  ex- 
tend this  hand  to  you.  If,  as  man  and  gentleman,  you 
have  done  that  which,  could  all  hearts  be  read,  all  secrets 
known — human  judgment  reversed  by  Divine  omniscience 
—  forbids  you  to  take  this  hand  —  then  reject  it — go 
hence  —  we  part!  But  if  no  such  act  be  on  your  con- 
science—  however  you  submit  to  its  imputation  —  then, 
in  the  name  of  Truth,  as  man  and  gentleman  to  man  and 


128  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

gentleman,  I  command  you  to  take  tliis  right  hand,  and 
in  the  name  of  that  Honor  which  bears  no  paltering,  I 
forbid  you  to  disobey." 

The  vagabond  rose,  like  the  dead  at  the  spell  of  a 
magician  —  took,  as  if  irresistibly,  the  hand  held  out  to 
him.  And  the  scholar,  overjoyed,  fell  on  his  breast,  em- 
bracing him  as  a  son. 

"  You  know,"  said  George,  in  trembling  accents,  "  that 
the  hand  you  have  taken  will  never  betray  —  never  desert ; 
but  is  it  —  is  it  really  powerless  to  raise  and  to  restore 
you  to  your  place  ?  " 

"  Powerless  among  your  kind  for  that  indeed,"  answered 
Waife,  in  accents  still  more  tremulous.  "All  the  kings 
of  the  earth  are  not  strong  enough  to  raise  a  name  that 
has  once  been  trampled  into  the  mire.  Learn  that  it  is  not 
only  impossible  for  me  to  clear  myself,  but  that  it  is 
equally  impossible  for  me  to  confide  to  mortal  being  a 
single  plea  in  defence  if  I  am  innocent,  in  extenuation  if 
I  am  {guilty.  And  saying  this,  and  entreating  you  to  hold 
it  mo'-e  merciful  to  condemn  than  to  question  me  —  for 
question  is  torture  —  I  can  not  reject  your  pity  ;  but  it 
would  be  mockery  to  offer  me  respect  1" 

"What !  not  respect  the  fortitude  which  calumny  can 
not  crush  ?  Would  that  fortitude  be  possible  if  you  were 
not  calm  in  the  knowledge  that  no  false  witnesses  can  mis- 
lead the  Eternal  Judge  ?  Respect  you  !  yes  —  because  I 
have  seen  you  happy  in  despite  of  men,  and  therefore  I 
know  that  the  cloud  around  you  is  not  the  frown  of 
Heaven  " 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  129 

"  Oh,"  cried  Waife,  the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks, 
"  and  not  an  hour  ago  I  was  jesting  at  human  friendship 

—  venting  graceless  spleen  on  mj  fellow-men  1    And  now 

—  now  —  ah  I  Sir,  Providence  is  so  kind  to  me  I  And," 
said  he,  brushing  away  his  tears,  as  the  old  arch  smile 
began  to  play  round  the  corner  of  his  mouth  —  "  and  kind 
to  me  in  the  very  quarter  in  which  unkindness  had  most 
sorely  smitten  me.  True,  you  directed  toward  me  the 
woman  who  took  from  me  my  grandchild —  who  destroyed 
me  in  the  esteem  of  good  Mr.  Hartopp.  Well,  you  see, 
T  have  my  sweet  Sophy  back  again  ;  we  are  in  the  home 
of  all  others  I  most  longed  for;  and  that  woman  —  yes, 
I  can,  at  least  thus  far,  confide  to  you  my  secrets,  so  that 
you  may  not  blame  yourself  for  sending  her  to  Gatesboro' 

—  that  very  woman  knows  of  my  shelter  —  furnished  mo 
with  the  very  reference  necessary  to  obtain  it ;  has  freed 
ray  grandchild  from  a  loathsome  bondage,  which  I  could 
not  have  legally  resisted ;  and  should  new  persecutions 
chase  us,  will  watch,  and  warn,  and  help  us.  And  if  you 
ask  me  how  this  change  in  her  was  effected  —  how,  when 
we  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  green  fields,  and  deemed 
that  only  in  the  crowd  of  a  city  we  could  escape  those 
who  pursued  us  when  discovered  there,  though  I  fancied 
myself  an  adept  in  disguise,  and  the  child  and  the  dog 
were  never  seen  out  of  the  four  garret  walls  in  which  I 
hid  them  ;  if  you  ask  me,  I  say,  to  explain  how  that  very 
woman  was  suddenly  converted  from  a  remorseless  foe  into 
a  saving  guardian,  I  can  only  answer,  by  no  wit,  no  de- 
vice, no  persuasive  art  of  mine.     Providence  softened  her 

I 


130  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

heart,  and  made  it  kind,  just  at  the  moment  when  no  other 
agency  on  earth  could  have  rescued  us  from — ^from  —  " 

"  Say  no  more — I  guess  I  the  paper  this  woman  showed 
me  was  a  legal  form  authorizing  your  poor  little  Sophy  to 
be  given  up  to  the  care  of  a  father.  I  guess  !  of  that 
father  you  would  not  speak  ill  to  me  ;  yet  from  that  father 
you  would  save  your  grandchild.  Say  no  more.  And 
yon  quiet  home  —  your  humble  eniployment,  really  con- 
tent you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  if  such  a  life  can  but  last  I  Sophy  is  so  well,  so 
cheerful,  so  happy.  Did  not  you  hear  her  singing  the 
other  day  ?  She  never  used  to  sing  I  But  we  had  not 
been  here  a  week  when  song  broke  out  from  her  untaught, 
as  from  a  bird.  But  if  any  ill  report  of  me  travel  hither 
from  Gatesboro',  or  elsewhere,  we  should  be  sent  away, 
and  the  bird  would  be  mute  in  my  thorn-tree  —  Sophy 
would  sing  no  more." 

"  Do  not  fear  that  slander  shall  drive  you  hence. 
Lady  Montfort,  you  know,  is  my  cousin,  but  you  know 
not  —  few  do  —  how  thoroughly  generous  and  gentle- 
hearted  she  is.  I  will  speak  of  you  to  her.  —  Oh,  do  not 
look  alarmed.  She  will  take  my  word  when  I  tell  her 
'  that  is  a  good  man  ; '  and  if  she  ask  more,  it  will  be 
enough  to  say,  'those  who  have  known  better  days  are 
loth  to  speak  to  strangers  of  the  past.'" 

"I  thank  you  earnestly,  sincerely,"  said  Waife, 
brightening  up.  "One  favor  more  —  if  you  saw  in  th-^. 
formal  document  shown  to  you,  or  retain  on  your  memory, 
the  name  of —  of  the  person  authorized  to  claim  Sophy 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  131 

as  bis  child,  you  will  not  mention  it  to  Lady  Montfort, 
I  am  not  sure  if  ever  she  heard  that  name,  but  she  may 
have  done  so — and — and — "  He  paused  a  moment,  and 
seemed  to  muse  ;  then  went  on,  not  concluding  his  sen- 
tence. "  You  are  so  good  to  me,  Mr.  Morley,  that  I  wish 
to  confide  in  you  as  far  as  I  can.  Now,  you  see  I  am 
already  an  old  man,  and  my  chief  object  is  to  raise  up  a 
friend  for  Sophy  when  I  am  gone  —  a  friend  in  her  own 
sex.  Sir.  Oh,  you  can  not  guess  how  I  long  —  how  I 
yearn  to  view  that  child  under  the  holy  fostering  eyes  of 
woman.  Perhaps  if  Lady  Montfort  saw  my  pretty 
Sophy  she  might  take  a  fancy  to  her.  Oh,  if  she  did  — 
if  she  did !  And  Sophy,"  added  Waife,  proudly,  "has  a 
right  to  respect.  She  is  not  like  me  —  any  hovel  good 
enough  for  me.  But  for  her  1 — Do  you  know  that  I  con- 
ceived that  hope — that  the  hope  helped  to  lead  me  back 
here  when,  months  ago,  I  was  at  Humberston,  intent 
upon  rescuing  Sophy ;  and  saw,  though,"  observed 
Waife,  with  a  sly  twitch  of  the  muscles  round  his  mouth, 
"  I  had  no  right  at  that  precise  moment  to  be  seeing  any 
thing — Lady  Montfort's  humane  fear  for  a  blind  old  im- 
postor, who  was  trying  to  save  his  dog  —  a  black  dog, 
Sir,  who  had  dyed  his  hair  —  from  her  carriage  wheels. 
And  the  hope  became  stronger  still,  when,  the  first 
Sunday  I  attended  yon  village  church,  I  again  saw  that 
fair — wondrously  fair — face  at  the  far  end — fair  as  moon- 
light and  as  melancholy.  Strange  it  is.  Sir,  that  1, 
naturally  a  boisterous,  mirthful  man,  and  now  a  shy, 
skulking   fugitive  —  feel   more   attracted,   more   allured 


132  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

toward  a  countenance,  in  proportion  as  I  read  there  the 
trace  of  sadness.  I  feel  less  abashed  by  my  own  nothing- 
ness—  more  emboldened  to  approach  and  say,  'Not  so 
far  apart  from  me  ;  thou,  too,  hast  suffered.'  Why  is 
this?" 

George  Morley.  "  '  The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart 
that  there  is  no  God  ;'  but  the  fool  hath  not  said  in  his 
heart  that  there  is  no  sorrow  —  pithy  and  most  profound 
sentence  ;  intimating  the  irrefragable  chain  that  binds 
men  to  the  Father.  And  where  the  chain  tightens  the 
children  are  closer  drawn  together.  But  to  your  wish — 
I  will  remember  it.  And  when  my  cousin  returns  she 
shall  see  your  Sophy." 


CHAPTER   V. 

Ml'.  Waife,  being  by  nature  unlucky,  considers  that,  in  proportion 
as  Fortune  brings  him  good  luck.  Nature  converts  it  into  bad. 
He  suffers  Mr.  George  Morley  to  go  away  in  his  debt,  and  Sophy 
fears  that  he  will  be  dull  in  consequence. 

George  Morley,  a  few  weeks  after  the  conversation 
last  recorded,  took  his  departure  from  Montfort  Court, 
prepared,  without  a  scruple,  to  present  himself  for  ordi- 
nation to  the  friendly  bishop.  From  Waife  he  derived 
more  than  the  cure  of  a  disabling  infirmity  ;  he  received 
those  hints  which,  to  a  man  who  has  the  natural  tempera- 
ment 0^  an  orator,  so  rarely  united  with  that  of  tho 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  133 

scholar,  expedite  the  mastery  of  the  art  which  makes  the 
fleeting:  human  voice  an  abiding,  imperishable  power. 
The  grateful  teacher  exhausted  all  his  lore  upon  the  pupil 
whose  genius  he  had  freed  —  whose  heart  had  subdued 
himself.  Before  leaving,  George  was  much  perplexed 
how  to  offer  to  Waife  any  other  remuneration  than  that 
which,  in  Waife's  estimate,  had  already  overpaid  all  the 
benefits  he  had  received  —  viz.,  unquestioning  friendship 
and  pledged  protection.  It  need  scarcely  be  said  that 
George  thought  the  man  to  whom  he  owed  fortune  and 
happiness  was  entitled  to  something  beyond  that  moral 
recompense.  But  he  found,  at  the  first  delicate  hint, 
that  Waife  would  not  hear  of  money,  though  the  ex- 
Comedian  did  not  affect  any  very  Quixotic  notions  on 
that  practical  subject.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Sir,  I 
have  rather  a  superstition  against  having  more  money  in 
my  hands  than  I  know  what  to  do  with.  It  has  always 
brought  me  bad  luck.  And  what  is  very  hard — the  bad 
luck  stays,  but  the  money  goes.  There  was  that  splendid 
sum  I  made  at  Gainsboro'.  You  should  have  seen  me 
counting  it  over.  I  could  not  have  had  a  prouder  or 
more  swelling  heart  if  I  had  been  that  great  man  Mr. 
Elwes  the  miser.  And  what  bad  luck  it  brought  me,  and 
how  it  all  frittered  itself  away  !  Nothing  to  show  for  it 
but  a  silk  ladder  and  an  old  hurdy-gurdy,  and  I  sold  tliem 
at  half-price.  Then,  when  I  had  the  accident  which  cost 
me  this  eye,  the  railway  people  behaved  so  generously, 
gave  ma  £120 — think  of  that!  And  before  three  day? 
the  money  was  all  gone  I  '^ 
IL  — 12 


134  WHAT    WILL    TIE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"How  was  that?"  said    George,  half  amused,  half 
pained  ;   "  stolen,  perhaps  ?  " 

"Not  so,"  answered  Waife,  somewhat  gloomily,  "but 
restored.  A  poor  dear  old  man,  who  thought  very  ill  of 
me  —  and  I  don't  wonder  at  it  —  was  reduced  from  great 
wealth  to  great  poverty.  While  I  was  laid  up  my  land- 
lady read  a  newspaper  to  me,  and  in  that  newspaper  was 
an  account  of  his  reverse  and  destitution.  But  I  was 
accountable  to  him  for  the  balance  of  an  old  debt,  and 
that,  with  the  doctor's  bills,  quite  covered  my  £120.  I 
hope  he  does  not  think  quite  so  ill  of  me  now.  But  the 
money  brought  good  luck  to  him  rather  than  to  me. 
Well,  Sir,  if  you  were  now  to  give  me  money  I  should 
be  on  the  look-out  for  some  mournful  calamity.  Gold  is 
not  natural  to  me.  Some  day,  however,  by-and-by,.  when 
you  are  inducted  into  your  living,  and  have  become  a  re- 
nowned preacher,  and  have  plenty  to  spare,  with  an  idea 
that  you  would  feel  more  comfortable  in  your  mind  if  you 
had  done  something  royal  for  the  basket-maker,  I  will 
ask  you  to  help  me  to  make  up  a  sum  which  I  am  trying 
by  degrees  to  save  —  an  enormous  sum  —  as  much  as  I 
paid  away  from  my  railway  compensation  —  I  owe  it  to 
the  lady  who  lent  it  to  release  Sophy  from  an  engage- 
ment which  I  —  certainly  without  any  remorse  of  con- 
science—  made  the  child  break." 

*'  Oh  yes  !  What  is  the  amount  ?  Let  me  at  least  repay 
that  debt." 

"  Not  yet.  The  lady  can  wait  —  and  she  would  be 
pleased  to  wait,  because  she  deserves  to  wait  —  it  would 
be  unkind  to  her  to  pay  it  off  at  once.     But  in  the  meap 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  135 

while,  if  you  could  send  me  a  few  good  books  for  Sopliy  ? 
—  instructive;  yet  not  very,  very  dry.  And  a  French 
dictionary — I  can  teach  her  French  when  the  winter  days 
close  in.  You  see  I  am  not  above  being  paid,  Sir.  But, 
Mr.  Morley,  there  is  a  great  favor  you  can  do  me." 

"What  is  it?     Speak." 

"  Cautiously  refrain  from  doing  me  a  great  disservice  j 
You  are  going  back  to  your  friends  and  relations. 
Never  speak  of  me  to  them.  Never  describe  me  and  my 
odd  ways.  Name  not  the  lady,  nor  —  nor  —  nor  —  the 
man  who  claimed  Sophy.  Your  friends  might  not  hurt 
me,  others  might.  Talk  travels.  The  Hare  is  not  long 
in  its  form  when  it  has  a  friend  in  a  Ilouud  that  gives 
tongue.  Promise  what  I  ask.  Promise  it^as  'man  and 
gentleman." 

"  Certainly.  Yet  I  have  one  relation  to  whom  I 
should  like,  with  your  permission,  to  speak  of  you  —  with 
wliom  I  could  wish  you  acquainted.  He  is  so  thorough 
a  man  of  the  world  that  he  might  suggest  some  method 
to  clear  your  good  name,  which  you  yourself  would  ap- 
prove.    My  uncle,  Colonel  Morley — " 

"  On  no  account ! "  cried  Waife,  almost  fiercely,  and  he 
evinced  so  much  anger  and  uneasiness  that  it  was  long 
before  George  could  pacify  him  by  the  most  earnest  as- 
surances that  his  secret  should  be  inviolably  kept,  and  his 
injunctions  faithfully  obeyed.  No  men  of  the  world  con- 
sulted how  to  force  him  back  to  the  world  of  men  that  he 
fled  from  1  No  colonels  to  scan  him  with  martinet  eyes, 
and  hint  how  to  pipe-clay  a  tarnish  1  Waife's  apprehen- 
sions gradually  allayed,  and  his  confidence  restored,  one 


136  WHAT    WILL    HE    PO     WITH    IT? 

fine  morning  George  took  leave  of  his  eccentric  bene- 
factor. 

Waife  and  Sophy  stood  gazing  after  him  from  their 
garden-gate ;  the  cripple  leaning  lightly  on  the  child's 
arm.  She  looked  with  anxious  fondness  into  the  old 
man's  thoughtful  face,  and  clung  to  him  more  closely  as 
she  looked. 

"  Will  you  not  be  dull,  poor  grandy  ?  Will  you  not 
miss  him  ?  " 

"  A  little  at  first,"  said  Waife,  rousing  himself.  "  Edu- 
cation is  a  great  thing.  An  educated  mind,  provided 
that  it  does  us  no  mischief — which  is  not  always  the  case 
—  cannot  be  withdrawn  from  our  existence  without 
leaving  a  blank  behind.  Sophy,  we  must  seriously  set  to 
work  and  educate  ourselves  ! " 

"We  will,  grandy  dear,"  said  Sophy,  with  decision; 
and  a  few  minutes  afterward,  "  If  I  can  become  very,  very 
clever,  you  will  not  pine  so  much  after  that  gentleman  — 
will  you,  grandy  ?  " 


CHAPTER   YI. 

Being  a  chapter  that  comes  to  an  untimely  end. 

Winter  was  far  advanced  when  Montfort  Court  was 
again  brightened  by  the  presence  of  its  lady.  A  polite 
letter  from  Mr.  Carr  Yipont  had  reached  her  before 
leaving  Windsor,  suggesting  how  much  it  would  be  for 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  137 

the  advantage  of  the  Yipont  interest  if  she  would  consent 
to  visit  for  a  month  or  two  the  seat  in  Ireland,  which  had 
been  too  long  neglected,  and  at  which  my  lord  would  join 
her  on  his  departure  from  his  Highland  moors.  So  to 
Ireland  went  Lady  Montfort.  My  lord  did  not  join  her 
tlicre  ;  but  Mr.  Carr  Yipont  deemed  it  desirable  for  the 
Yipont  interest  that  the  wedded  pair  should  reunite  at 
Montfort  Court,  where  all  the  Yipont  family  were  invited 
to  witness  their  felicity  or  mitigate  their  ennui. 

But,  before  proceeding  another  stage  in  this  history,  it 
becomes  a  just  tribute  of  respect  to  the  great  House  of 
Yipont  to  pause  and  place  its  past  records  and  present 
grandeur  in  fuller  display  before  the  reverential  reader. 
The  House  of  Yipont  1  What  am  I  about  ?  The  House 
of  Yipont  requires  a  chapter  to  itself. 


CHAPTER   YII. 

The  House  of  Vipont.  —  '■'■Majora  canamus.^* 

The  House  of  Yipont !  Looking  back  through  ages, 
it  seems  as  if  the  House  of  Yipont  were  one  continuous, 
living  idiosyncrasy,  having  in  its  progressive  develop- 
ment a  connected  unity  of  thought  and  action,  so  that 
through  all  the  changes  of  its  outward  form  it  had  been 
moved  and  guided  by  the  same  single  spirit  —  "  Le  roi 
est  mort —  vu:e  le  roi!"  —  A  Yipont  dies  —  live  the  Yi- 
12* 


138  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

pont !  Despite  its  high-sounding  Norman  name,  the 
House  of  Yipont  was  no  House  at  all  for  some  genera- 
tions after  the  Conquest.  The  first  Yipont  who  emerged 
from  the  obscurity  of  time  was  a  rude  soldier,  of  Gascon 
origin,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  II.  ;  one  of  the  thousand 
fighting  men  who  sailed  from  Milford  Haven  with  the 
stout  Earl  of  Pembroke,  on  that  strange  expedition  which 
ended  in  the  conquest  of  Ireland.  This  gallant  man  ob- 
tained large  grants  of  land  in  that  fertile  island  —  some 
Mac  or  some  0'  vanished,  and  the  House  of  Yipont  rose. 
During  the  reign  of  Richard  I.  the  House  of  Yipont, 
though  recalled  to  England  (leaving  its  Irish  acquisitions 
in  charge  of  a  fierce  cadet,  who  served  as  middleman), 
excused  itself  from  the  Crusade,  and,  by  marriage  with  a 
rich  goldsmith's  daughter,  was  enabled  to  lend  moneys 
to  those  who  indulged  in  that  exciting  but  costly  pilgrim- 
age. In  the  reign  of  John  the  House  of  Yipont  fore- 
closed its  mortgages  on  lands  thus  pledged,  and  became 
possessed  of  a  very  fair  property  in  England,  as  well  as 
its  fiefs  in  the  sister  isle. 

The  House  of  Yipont  took  no  part  in  the  troublesome 
politics  of  that  day.  Discreetly  obscure,  it  attended  to 
its  own  fortunes,  and  felt  small  interest  in  Magna  Charta. 
During  the  reigns  of  the  Plantagenet  Edwards,  who  were 
great  encouragers  of  mercantile  adventure,  the  House  of 
Yipont,  shunning  Creci,  Bannockburn,  and  such  profitless 
orawls,  intermarried  with  London  traders,  and  got  many 
a  good  thing  out  of  the  Genoese.  In  the  reign  of  Henr} 
lY.  the  House  of  Yipont  reaped  the  benefit  of  its  past 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  139 

forbearance  and  modesty.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  the 
Yiponts  appear  as  belted  knights  —  they  have  armorial 
bearings  —  they  are  Lancasterian  to  the  back-bone  — 
they  are  exceedingl}'-  indignant  against  heretics  —  they 
burn  the  Lollards  —  they  have  places  in  the  household 
of  Queen  Joan,  who  was  called  a  witch,  but  a  witch  is  a 
very  good  friend  when  she  wields  a  sceptre  instead  of  a 
broomstick.  And  in  proof  of  its  growing  importance, 
the  House  of  Yipont  marries  a  daughter  of  the  then 
mighty  House  of  Darrell.  In  the  reign  of  Henry  Y., 
during  the  invasion  of  France,  the  House  of  Yipont  — 
being  afraid  of  the  dysentery  which  carried  off  more  brave 
fellows  than  the  field  of  Agincourt  —  contrived  to  be  a 
minor.  The  Wars  of  the  Roses  puzzled  the  House  of 
Yipont  sadly.  But  it  went  through  that  perilous  ordeal 
^with  singular  tact  and  success.  The  manner  in  which  it 
changed  sides,  each  change  safe,  and  most  changes  lucra- 
tive, is  beyond  all  praise. 

On  the  whole,  it  preferred  the  Yorkists;  it  was  impos- 
sible to  be  actively  Lancasterian,  with  Henry  YI.  of  Lan- 
caster always  in  prison.  And  thus,  at  the  death  of  Ed- 
ward lY.,  the  House  of  Yipont  was  Baron  Yipont  of 
Yipont,  with  twenty  manors.  Richard  IIL  counted  on 
the  House  of  Yipont,  when  he  left  London  to  meet  Rich- 
mond at  Bosworth  —  he  counted  without  his  host.  The 
House  of  Yipont  became  again  intensely  Lancasterian, 
and  was  among  the  first  to  crowd  round  the  litter  in  which 
Henry  YIL  entered  the  metropolis.  In  tliat  reign  it  mar- 
ried a  relation  of  Empson's  —  did  the  great  House  of 


140  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Yipont !  and  as  nobles  of  elder  date  had  become  scarce 
and  poor,  Henry  YII.  was  pleassd  to  make  the  House  of 
Yipont  an  earl  —  the  Earl  of  Montfort.  In  the  reign  of 
Henry  YIII.,  instead  of  burning  Lollards,  the  House  of 
Yipont  was  all  for  the  Reformation  —  it  obtained  the 
lands  of  two  priories  and  one  abbey.  Gorged  with  that 
spoil,  the  House  of  Yipont,  like  an  anaconda  in  the  pro- 
cess of  digestion,  slept  long.  But  no,  it  slept  not.  Though 
it  kept  itself  still  as  a  mouse  during  the  reign  of  bloody 
Queen  Mary  (only  letting  it  be  known  at  court  that  the 
House  of  Yipont  had  strong  papal  leanings)  ;  though 
during  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth  and  James  it  made  no  noise, 
the  House  of  Yipont  was  silently  inflating  its  lungs,  and 
improving  its  constitution.  Slept,  indeed  !  it  was  wide 
awake.  Then  it  was  that  it  began  systematically  its  grand 
policy  of  alliances;  then  was  it  sedulously  grafting  its. 
olive  branches  on  the  stems  of  those  fruitful  New  Houses 
that  had  sprung  up  with  the  Tudors ;  then,  alive  to  the 
spirit  of  the  day,  provident  of  the  wants  of  the  morrow, 
over  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land  it  wove  the  inter- 
lacing net-work  of  useful  cousinhood  !  Then,  too,  it  began 
to  build  palaces,  to  inclose  parks  —  it  traveled,  too,  a  little 
—  did  the  House  of  Yipont  I  It  visited  Italy  —  it  con- 
ceived a  taste  ;  a  very  elegant  House  became  the  House 
of  Yipont  I  And  in  James's  reign,  for  the  first  time,  the 
House  of  Yipont  got  the  Garter.  The  Civil  Wars  broke 
out  —  England  was  rent.  Peer  and  knight  took  part  with 
one  side  or  the  other.  The  House  of  Yipont  was  again 
perplexed.    Certainly  at  the  commencement  it  v/as  all  for 


WHAT    WILL-HE    DO    WITH    IT?  141 

King  Charles.  But  when  Kmg  Charles  took  to  fighting, 
the  House  of  Yipont  shook  its  sagacious  head,  and  went 
about,  like  Lord  Falkland,  sighing  "  Peace,  peace  I " 
Finally  it  remembered  its  neglected  estates  in  Ireland  — 
its  duties  called  it  thither.  To  Ireland  it  went,  discreetly 
6.\d,  and,  marrying  a  kinswoman  of  Lord  Fauconberg  — 
the  only  popular  and  safe  connection  formed  by  the  Lord 
Protector's  family  —  it  was  safe  when  Cromwell  visited 
Ireland ;  and  no  less  safe  when  Charles  II.  was  restored 
to  England.  During  the  reign  of  the  merry  monarch  the 
House  of  Yipont  was  a  courtier,  married  a  beauty,  got 
the  Garter  again,  and,  for  the  first  time,  became  the 
fashion.  Fashion  began  to  be  a  power.  In  the  reign  of 
James  II.  the  House  of  Yipont  again  contrived  to  be  a 
minor,  who  came  of  age  just  in  time  to  take  the  oaths  of 
fealty  to  William  and  Mary.  In  case  of  accidents,  the 
House  of  Yipont  kept  on  friendly  terms  with  the  exiled 
Stuarts,  but  it  wrote  no  letters,  and  got  into  no  scrapes. 
It  was  not,  however,  till  the  Government,  under  Sir  R. 
Walpole,  established  the  constitutional  and  parliamentary 
system  which  characterizes  modern  freedom,  that  the 
puissance  accumulated  through  successive  centuries  by  the 
House  of  Yipont  became  pre-eminently  visible.  By  that 
time  its  lands  were  vast,  its  wealth  enormous ;  its  parlia- 
mentary influence,  as  "a  Great  House,"  was  now  a  part 
of  the  British  Constitution.  At  this  period  the  House  of 
Yipont  found  it  convenient  to  rend  itself  into  two  grand 
divisions  —  the  peer's  branch  and  the  commoner's.  The 
House  of  Commons  had  become  so  important  that  it  was 

2k 


142  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

necessary  for  the  House  of  Yipont  to  be  represented  there 
by  a  great  commoner.  Thus  arose  the  family  of  Carr 
Yipont.  That  division  —  owing  to  a  marriage  settlement 
favoring  a  younger  son  by  the  heiress  of  the  Carrs  —  car- 
ried off  a  good  slice  from  the  estate  of  the  earldom  —  mio 
averso.non  deficit  alter;  the  earldom  mourned,  but  re- 
placed the  loss  by  two  wealthy  wedlocks  of  its  own  ;  and 
had  since  seen  cause  to  rejoice  that  its  power  in  the  Up- 
per Chamber  was  strengthened  by  such  aid  in  the  Lower. 
For,  thanks  to  its  parliamentary  influence,  and  the  aid  of. 
the  great  commoner,  in  the  reign  of  George  III.  the 
House  of  Yipont  became  a  Marquis.  From  that  time  to 
the  present  day  the  House  of  Yipont  had  gone  on  pros- 
pering and  progressive.  It  was  to  the  aristocracy  ^'hat 
the  Times  newspaper  is  to  the  press.  The  same  quick 
sympathy  with  public  feeling  —  the  same  unity  of  tone  and 
purpose  —  the  same  adaptability  —  and  something  of  the 
same  lofty  tone  of  superiority  to  the  petty  interests  of 
party.  It  may  be  conceded  that  the  House  of  Yipont 
was  less  brilliant  than  the  Times  newspaper,  but  eloquence 
and  wit,  necessary  to  the  duration  of  a  newspaper,  were 
not  necessary  to  that  of  the  house  of  Yipont.  Had  they 
been  so,  it  would  have  had  them  I 

The  Head  of  the  House  of  Yipont  rarely  condescended 
to  take  office.  With  a  rent-roll  loosely  estimated  at  about 
£170,000  a  year,  it  is  beneath  a  man  to  take  from  the 
pu])lic  a  paltry  five  or  six  thousand  a  year,  and  undergo 
all  the  undignified  abuse  of  popular  assemblies,  and  "a 
"ibald  press."     But  it  was  a  matter  of  course  that  the 


^\'IIAT     AVILL     HE    DO    WITH    IT?  143 

House  of  Yipoiit  should  be  represented  in  any  cabinet 
that  a  constitutional  monarch  could  be  advised  to  form. 
Since  the  time  of  Walpole,  a  Yipont  was  always  in  the 
service  of  his  country,  except  in  those  rare  instances  when 
the  country  was  infamously  misgoverned.  The  cadets  of 
the  House,  or  the  senior  member  of  the  great  commoner's 
branch  of  it,  sacrificed  their  ease  to  fulfill  tliat  duty.  The 
Montfort  marquises  in  general  were  contented  with  situa- 
tions of  honor  in  the  household,  as  of  Lord  Steward,  Lord 
Chamberlain,  or  Master  of  the  Horse,  etc.  — not  onerous 
dignities;  and  evcH  these  they  only  deigned  to  accept  on 
those  especial  occasions  when  danger  threatened  the  Star 
of  Brunswick,  and  the  sense  of  its  exalted  station  forbade 
the  house  of  Vipont  to  leave  his  country  in  the  dark. 

Great  Houses  like  that  of  Yipont  assist  the  work  of 
civilization  by  the  law  of  their  existence.  They  are  sure 
to  have  a  spirited  and  wealthy  tenantry,  to  whom,  if  but 
for  the  sake  of  that  popular  character  which  doubles 
political  influence,  they  are  liberal  and  kindly  landlords. 
Under  their  sway  fens  and  sands  become  fertile  —  agri- 
cultural experiments  are  tested  on  a  large  scale  —  cattle 
and  sheep  improve  in  breed  —  national  capital  augments, 
and,  springing  beneath  the  plowshare,  circulates  indirectly 
to  speed  the  ship  and  animate  the  loom.  Had  there 
been  no  Woburn,  no  Holkham,  no  Montfort  Court, 
England  would  be  the  poorer  by  many  a  million.  Our 
great  Houses  tend  also  to  the  refinement  of  national  taste  ; 
they  have  their  show-places,  their  picture-galleries,  their 
beautiful  grounds.    The  humblest  drawing-rooms  owe  an 


144  WHAT    WILL    RE    DO    WITH    IT? 

elegance  or  comfort  — the  smallest  garden,  a  flower  or 
esculent  —  to  the  importations  which  luxury  borrowed 
from  abroad,  or  the  inventions  it  stimulated  at  home,  for 
the  original  benefit  of  great  Houses.  Having  a  fair  share 
of  such  merits,  in  common  with  other  great  Houses,  the 
House  of  Yipont  was  not  without  good  qualities  peculiar 
to  itself.  Precisely  because  it  was  the  most  egotistical  of 
Houses,  filled  with  the  sense  of  its  own  identity,  aud 
guided  by  the  instincts  of  its  own  conservation,  it  was  a 
very  civil,  good-natured  House  —  courteous,  generous, 
hospitable;  a  House  (I  mean  the  Head  of  it  —  not,  of 
course,  all  its  subordinate  members,  including  even  the 
august  Lady  Selina)  that  could  bow  graciously,  and  shake 
hands  with  you.  Even  if  you  had  no  vote  yourself,  you 
might  have  a  cousin  who  bad  a  vote.  And  once  admitted 
into  the  family,  the  House  adopted  you ;  you  had  only 
to  marry  one  of  its  remotest  relations,  and  the  House 
sent  you  a  wedding  present ;  and  at  every  general  election 
invited  you  to  rally  round  your  connection  —  the  Marquis. 
Therefore,  next  only  to  the  Established  Church,  the  House 
of  Vipont  was  that  British  institution,  the  roots  of  which 
were  the  most  widely  spread. 

"N'ow  the  Yiponts  had  for  long  generations  been  an 
{.nergetic  race.  Whatever  their  defects,  they  had  ex- 
liibited  shrewdness  and  vigor.  The  late  Marqais  (grand- 
father to  the  present)  had  been,  perhaps,  the  ablest  (that 
is,  done  most  for  the  House  of  Yipont)  of  them  all.  Of 
a  grandiose  and  superb  mode  of  living  —  of  a  majestic 
deportment — of  princely  maimers — of  a  remarkakle  talent 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  145 

for  the  management  of  all  business,  whether  private  or 
public  —  a  perfect  enthusiast  for  the  House  of  Yipont,  and 
aided  by  a  marchioness  in  all  respects  worthy  of  him,  he 
might  be  said  to  be  the  culminating  flower  of  the  venerable 
stem.  But  the  present  lord,  succeeding  to  the  title  as  a 
mere  child,  was  a  melancholy  contrast,  not  only  to  his 
grandsire,  but  to  the  general  character  of  his  progenitors. 
Before  his  time  every  head  of  the  House  had  done  some- 
thing for  it  —  even  the  most  frivolous  had  contributed  ; 
one  had  collected  the  pictures,  another  the  statues,  a  third 
the  medals,  a  fourth  had  amassed  the  famous  Vipont 
library  ;  while  others  had  at  least  married  heiresses,  or 
augmented,  through  ducal  lines,  the  splendor  of  the  in- 
terminable cousinhood.  The  present  marquis  was  literally 
nil.  The  pitii  of  the  Yiponts  was  not  in  him.  He  looked 
well,  he  dressed  well ;  if  life  were  only  the  dumb  show  of 
a  tableau,  he  would  have  been  a  paragon  of  a  Marquis. 
But  he  was  like  the  watches  we  give  to  little  children, 
with  a  pretty  gilt  dial-plate,  and  no  works  in  them.  He 
was  thoroughly  inert  —  there  was  no  winding  him  up  ;  he 
could  not  manage  his  property  —  he  could  not  answer  his 
letters  —  very  few  of  them  could  he  even  read  through. 
Politics  did  not  interest  him,  nor  literature,  nor  field- 
sports.  He  shot,  it  is  true,  but  mechanically  —  wondering, 
perhaps,  *why  he  did  shoot.  He  attended  races,  because 
the  House  of  Yipont  kept  a  racing  stud.  He  bet  on  his 
own  horses;  but  if  they  lost,  showed  no  vexation.  Ad- 
mirers (no  Marquis  of  Montfort  could  be  wholly  without 
them)  said  :  "  What  fine  temper  I  ^^hat  good-breeding  I  " 
IL  — 13  K 


!46  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

it  wa-s  nothing  but  constitutional  apathy.  No  one  could 
call  him  a  bad  man — he  was  not  a  profligate,  an  oppressor, 
a  miser,  a  spendthrift ;  he  would  not  have  taken  the 
trouble  to  be  a  bad  man  on  any  account.  Those  who 
beheld  his  character  at  a  distance  would  have  called  him 
an  exemplary  man.  The  more  conspicuous  duties  of  his 
station,  subscriptions,  charities,  the  maintenance  of  grand 
establishments,  the  encouragement  of  the  fine  arts,  were 
virtues  admirably  performed  for  him  by  others.  But  the 
phlegm  or  nullity  of  his  being  was  not,  after  all,  so  com- 
plete as  I  have  made  it,  perhaps,  appear.  He  had  one 
susceptibility  which  is  more  common  with  women  than 
with  men — the  susceptibility  to  j^ique.  His  amour  loropre 
was  unforgiving  —  pique  that,  and  he  could  do  a  rash 
thing,  a  foolish  thing,  a  spiteful  thing  —  pique  that,  and, 
prodigious  !  the  watch  went !  He  had  a  rooted  pique 
against  his  marchioness.  Apparently  he  had  conceived 
this  pique  from  the  very  first.  He  showed  it  passively  by 
supreme  neglect ;  he  showed  it  actively  by  removing  her 
from  all  the  spheres  of  power  which  naturally  fall  to  the 
wife  when  the  husband  shuns  the  details  of  business. 
Evidently  he  had  a  dread  lest  any  one  should  saj^,  "  Lady 
Montfort  influences  my  lord."  Accordingly,  not  only  the 
management  of  his  estates  fell  to  Carr  Yipont,  but  even 
of  his  gardens,  his  household,  his  domestic  arrangements. 
It  was  Carr  Yipont  or  Lady  Selina  who  said  to  Lady 
Montfort,  "  Give  a  ball ;  "  "You  should  ask  so  and  so  to 
dinner."  Montfort  was  much  hurt  to  see  the  old  lawn 
at  the  Twickenham  Yilla  broken  up  by  thos  j  new  bosquets 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  l4l 

True,  it  is  settled  on  you  as  a  jointure  bouse,  but  for  that 
very  reason  Montfort  is  sensitive,"  etc.  etc.  In  fact,  they 
were  virtually  as  separated,  my  lord  and  my  lady,  as  if 
legally  disunited,  and  as  if  Carr  Yipont  and  Lady  Selinu 
were  trustees  or  intermediaries  in  any  polite  approach  to 
each  other.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  fair  to  say  that 
where  Lady  Montfort's  sphere  of  action  did  not  interfere 
with  her  husband's  plans,  habits,  likings,  dislikings,  jealous 
apprehensions,  that  she  should  be  supposed  to  have  any 
ascendency  over  what  exclusively  belonged  to  himself  as 
Roi  faineant  of  the  Yipont's,  she  was  left  free  as  air. 
Xo  attempt  at  masculine  control  or  conjugal  advice.  At 
her  disposal  was  wealth  without  stint  —  every  luxury  the 
soft  could  desire  —  every  gewgaw  the  vain  could  covet. 
Had  her  pin-money,  which  was  in  itself  the  revenue  of 
an  ordinary  peeress,  failed  to  satisfy  her  wants  —  had  she 
grown  tired  of  wearing  the  family  diamonds,  and  coveted 
new  gems  from  Golconda  —  a  single  word  to  Carr  Yipont 
or  Lady  Selina  would  have  been  answered  by  a  carte 
blanche  on  the  Bank  of  England.  But  Lady  Montfort 
had  the  misfortune  not  to  be  extravagant  in  her  tastes. 
Strange  to  say,  in  the  Avorld  Lord  Montfort's  marriage 
was  called  a  love  match  ;  he  had  married  a  portionless 
girl,  daughter  to  one  of  his  poorest  and  obscurest  cousins, 
against  the  uniform  policy  of  the  House  of  Yipont,  which 
did  all  it  could  for  poor  cousins  except  marrying  them  to 
its  chief.  But  Lady  Montfort's  conduct  in  these  trying 
circumstances  was  admirable  and  rare.  Few  affronts  can 
humiliate  us  unless  we  resent  them  —  and  in  vain.     Lady 


148  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Montfort  had  that  exquisite  dignity  which  gives  to  sub- 
mission the  grace  of  cheerful  acquiescence.  That  in  the 
gay  world  flatterers  should  gather  round  a  young  wife  so 
eminently  beautiful,  and  so  wholly  left  by  her  husband  to 
her  own  guidance,  was  inevitable.  But  at  the  very  first 
insinuated  compliment  or  pathetic  condolence,  Lady  Mont- 
fort, so  meek  in  her  household,  was  haughty  enough  to 
have  daunted  Lovelace.  She  was  thus  very  early  felt  to 
be  beyond  temptation,  and  the  boldest  passed  on,  nor  pre- 
sumed to  tempt.  She  was  unpopular;  called  "proud 
and  freezing ; "  she  did  not  extend  the  influence  of  The 
House  ;  she  did  not  confirm  its  fashion — fashion  which 
necessitates  social  ease,  and  which  no  rank,  no  wealth,  no 
virtue  can  of  themselves  suffice  to  give.  And  this  failure 
on  her  part  was  a  great  ofi'ense  in  the  eyes  of  the  House 
of  Yipont.  "  She  does  absolutely  nothing  for  us,"  said 
Lady  Selina ;  but  Lady  Selina  in  her  heart  was  well 
pleased  that  to  her  in  reality  thus  fell,  almost  without  a 
rival,  the  female  representation,  in  the  great  world,  of  the 
Yipont  honors.     Lady  Selina  was  fashion  itself. 

Lady  Montfort's  social  peculiarity  was  in  the  eageiiiess 
with  which  she  sought  the  society  of  persons  who  enjoyed 
a  reputation  for  superior  intellect,  whether  statesmen, 
lawyers,  authors,  philosophers,  artists.  Intellectual  inter- 
course seemed  as  if  it  was  her  native  atmosphere,  from 
which  she  was  habitually  banished,  to  wliich  she  returned 
with  an  instinctive  yearning  and  a  new  zest  of  life  ;  yet 
was  she  called,  even  here,  nor  seemingly  without  justice 
—  capricious  and  unsteady  in  her  likings.     These  clever 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  149 

personages,  after  a  little  while,  all  seemed  to  disappoint 
her  expectations  of  them  ;  she  sought  the  acquaintance 
of  each  with  cordial  earnestness  ;  slid  from  the  acquaint- 
ance with  weary  langor ;  never,  after  all,  less  alone  than 
when  alone. 

And  so  wondrous  lovely  I  Nothing  so  rare  as  beauty 
of  '.he  high  type ;  genius  and  beauty,  indeed,  are  both 
rare  ;  genius,  which  is  the  beauty  of  the  mind  —  beauty, 
which  is  the  genius  of  the  body.  But,  of  the  two,  beauty 
is  the  rarer.  All  of  us  can  count  on  our  fingers  some 
forty  or  fifty  persons  of  undoubted  and  illustrious  genius, 
including  those  famous  in  action,  letters,  art.  But  can 
any  of  us  remember  to  have  seen  more  than  four  or  five 
specimens  of  first-rate  ideal  beauty  ?  Whosoever  had  seen 
Lady  Montfort  would  have  ranked  her  among  such  four 
or  five  in  his  recollection.  There  was  in  her  face  that 
lustrous  dazzle  to  which  the  Latin  poet,  perhaps,  refers 

when  he  speaks  of  the 

"Nitor 
Splendentis  Pario  marmore  purius  .  .  . 
Et  voltus,  nimium  lubiicus  adspici," 

and  which  an  English  poet,  with  the  less  sensuous  but 
more  spiritual  imagination  of  northern  genius,  has  de- 
scribed in  lines  that  an  English  reader  may  be  pleased  to 
see  rescued  from  oblivion  : 

"  Her  face  was  like  the  milky  way  i'  the  sky, 
A  meeting  of  gentle  lights  without  a  name." 

The  eyes  so  purely  bright,  the  exquisite  harmony  of  co- 
loring between  the  dark  (not  too  dark)  hair,  and  the  ivory 
13* 


150  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

of  the  skin  ;  i^ucll  sweet  radiance  in  the  lip  when  it  brokg 
into  a  smile.  And  it  was  said  that  in  her  maiden  day, 
before  Caroline  Lyndsay  became  Marchioness  of  Mont- 
fort,  that  smile  was  the  most  joyous  thing  imaginable. 
Absurd  now;  you  would  not  think  it,  but  that  stately 
lady  had  been  a  wild,  fanciful  girl,  with  the  merriest  laugh 
and  the  quickest  tear,  filling  the  air  round  her  with  April 
sunshine.  Certainly,  no  beings  ever  yet  lived  the  life 
Nature  intended  them  to  live,  nor  had  fair  play  for  heart 
and  mind,  who  contrived,  by  hook  or  by  crook — to  marry 
the  wTong  person  I 


CHAPTER  YIII. 

The  interior  of  the  Great  House.    The  British  Constitution  at  home 
in  a  Family  Party. 

Great  was  the  family  gathering  that  Christmas  tide  at 
Montfort  Court.  Thither  flocked  the  cousins  of  the  House 
in  all  degrees  and  of  various  ranks.  From  dukes  who 
nad  nothing  left  to  wish  for  that  kings  and  cousinhoods 
can  give,  to  briefless  barristers  and  aspiring  cornets,  of 
equally  good  blood  with  the  dukes  —  the  superb  family 
united  its  motley  scions.  Such  reunions  were  frequent, 
they  belonged  to  the  hereditary  policy  of  the  House  of 
Vipont.  On  this  occasion  the  muster  of  the  clan  wag 
more  significant  than  usual ;  there  was  a  "  crisis"  in  the 
«jonstitutiunal  history  of  the  British  empire.  A  new  Go- 
rernn^nt  had  been  suddenly  formed  within  the  last  six 


WHAT     WILL     HE    DO     WITH     IT?  151 

weeks,  which  certainly  portended  some  direful  blow  oij 
our  ancient  institutions,  for  the  House  of  Yipont  had  not 
been  consulted  in  its  arrangements,  and  was  wholly  unre- 
presented in  the  Ministry,  even  by  a  lordship  of  the 
Treasury.  Carr  Vipont  had  therefore  summoned  the 
patriotic  and  resentful  kindred. 

It  is  an  hour  or  so  after  the  conclusion  of  dinner.  The 
gentlemen  have  joined  the  ladies  in  the  state  suite  —  a 
suite  which  the  last  Marquis  had  rearranged  and  redeco- 
rated in  his  old  age  —  during  the  long  illness  that  finally 
conducted  him  to  his  ancestors.  During  his  earlier  years 
that  princely  Marquis  had  deserted  Montfort  Court  for  a 
seat  nearer  to  London,  and  therefore  much  more  easily 
filled  with  that  brilliant  society  of  which  he  had  been  long 
the  ornament  and  center.  Railways  not  then  existing  for 
the  annihilation  of  time  and  space,  and  a  journey  to  a 
northern  country  four  days  with  post-horses,  making  the 
invitations  even  of  a  Marquis  of  Montfort  unalluring  to 
languid  beauties  and  gouty  ministers.  But  nearing  the 
end  of  his  worldly  career,  tliis  long  neglect  of  the  dwelling 
identified  with  his  hereditary  titles  smote  the  conscience 
of  the  illustrious  sinner.  And  other  occupations  begin- 
ning to  pall,  his  lorJship,  accompanied  and  cheered  by  a 
chaplain,  who  had  a  fine  ta.ste  in  the  decorative  arts,  came 
resolutely  to  Montfoct  Court ;  and  there,  surrounded  with 
architects,  and  gilders,  and  upholsterers,  redeemed  his 
errors ;  and  soothed  by  the  reflection  of  the  palace  pro- 
vided for  his  successor,  added  to  his  vaults  —  a  coffin. 

The  suite  expands  before  the  eye.     You   are  in   the 


152  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

grand  drawing-room,  copied  from  that  of  Yersailles 
That  is  the  picture,  full  length,  of  the  late  Marquis  in 
his  robes  ;  its  pendent  is  the  late  Marchioness,  his  wife. 
That  table  of  malachite  is  a  present  from  the  Russian 
Emperor  Alexander ;  that  vase  of  Sevre  which  rests  on 
it  was  made  for  Marie  Antoinette  —  see  her  portrait 
enameled  in  its  centre.  Through  the  open  door  at  the 
far  end  your  eye  loses  itself  in  a  vista  of  other  pompous 
chambers — the  music-room,  the  statue  hall,  the  orangery ; 
other  rooms  there  are  appertaining  to  the  suite  —  a  ball- 
room fit  for  Babylon,  a  library  that  might  have  adorned 
Alexandria  —  but  they  are  not  lighted,  nor  required,  on 
this  occasion  :  it  is  strictly  a  family  party,  sixty  guests 
and  no  more. 

In  the  drawing-room  three  whist-tables  carry  off  the 
more  elderly  and  grave.  The  piano,  in  the  music-room, 
attracts  a  younger  group.  Lady  Selina  Yipont's  eldest 
daughter  ITonoria,  a  young  lady  not  yet  brought  out, 
but  about  to  be  brought  out  the  next  season,  is  threading 
a  wonderfully  intricate  German  piece  — 

"  Linked  music  long  drawn  out," 
with  variations.  Her  science  is  consummate.  'No  pains 
have  been  spared  on  her  education  ;  elaborately  accom- 
plished, she  is  formed  to  be  the  sympathizing  spouse  of  a 
wealthy  statesman.  Lady  Montfort  is  seated  by  an 
elderly  duchess,  who  is  good-natured,  and  a  great  talker  ; 
near  her  are  seated  two  middle-aged  gentlemen,  who  had 
been  conversing  with  her  till  the  duchess,  having  cut  in, 
turned  dialogue  into  monologue. 


WHAT     WILL    nE    DO     WITH    IT?  153 

The  elder  of  these  two  gentlemen  is  Mr.  Carr  Yipont, 
bald,  with  clipped  parliamentary  whiskers ;  values  him- 
self on  a  likeness  to  Canning,  but  with  a  portlier  pre- 
sence— looks  a  large-acred  man.  Carr  Vipont  has  about 
£40,000  a  year  ;  has  often  refused  ofl&ce  for  himself,  while 
taking  care  that  other  Yiponts  should  have  it ;  is  a  great 
authority  in  Committee  business  and  the  rules  of  the 
House  of  Commons  ;  speaks  very  seldom,  and  at  no 
great  length,  never  arguing,  merely  stating  his  opinion, 
carries  great  weight  with  him,  and  as  he  votes,  vote  fifteen 
other  members  of  the  House  of  Yipont,  besides  admiring 
satellites.  He  can  therefore  turn  divisions,  and  has  de- 
cided the  fate  of  cabinets.  A  pleasant  man,  a  little 
consequential,  but  the  reverse  of  haughty  —unctuously 
overbearing.  The  other  gentleman,  to  whom  he  is  listen- 
ing, is  our  old  acquaintance  Colonel  Alban  Yipont  Mor- 
ley — DarrelPs  friend — George's  uncle — a  man  of  import- 
ance, not  inferior,  indeed,  to  that  of  his  kinsman  Carr ; 
an  authority  in  club-rooms,  an  oracle  in  drawing-rooms, 
a  first-rate  man  of  the  beau  moncle.  Alban  Morley,  a 
younger  brother,  had  entered  the  Guards  young ;  retired, 
young  also,  from  the  Guards  with  the  rank  of  colonel, 
and  on  receipt  of  a  legacy  from  an  old  aunt,  which,  with 
the  interest  derived  from  the  sum  at  which  he  sold  his 
commission,  allowed  him  a  clear  income  of  £1000  a  year. 
This  modest  income  sufficed  for  all  his  wants,  fine  gentle- 
man though  he  was.  He  had  refused  to  go  into  Parlia- 
ment—  refused  a  high  place  in  a  public  department. 
Single  himself,  he  showed  his  respect  for  wedlock  by  the 


154  AVriAT    WILL    HE     DO     WITH    IT? 

\ 

interest  he  took  in  the  marriages  of  other  people — jnst 
as  Earl  Warwick,  too  wise  to  set  np  for  a  king,  gratified 
nis  passion  for  royalty  by  becoming  the  king-maker.  The 
colonel  was  exceedingly  accomplished,  a  very  fair  scholar, 
knew  most  mcdern  languages.  In  painting  an  amateur, 
in  music  a  connoisseur ;  witty  at  times,  and  with  wit  of  a 
high  quality,  but  thrifty  in  the  expenditure  of  it ;  too 
wise  to  be  known  as  a  wit.  Manly  too,  a  daring  rider, 
who  had  won  many  a  fox's  brush,  a  famous  deer-stalker, 
and  one  of  the  few  English  gentlemen  who  still  keep  up 
the  noble  art  of  fencing  —  twice  a  week  to  be  seen,  foil 
in  hand,  accainst  all  comers  in  Ano^elo's  rooms.  Thin, 
well-shaped  —  not  handsome,  my  dear  young  lady,  far 
from  it,  but  with  an  air  so  thoroughbred,  that,  had  you 
seen  him  in  the  day  when  the  opera-house  had  a  crush- 
'oom  and  a  fops'  alley  —  seen  him  in  either  of  those  re- 
orts,  surrounded  by  elaborate  dandies,  and  showy  beauty- 
men — dandies  and  beauty-men  would  have  seemed  to  you 
second-rate  and  vulgar  ;  and  the  eye,  fascinated  by  that 
quiet  form — plain  in  manner,  plain  in  dress,  plain  in  fea- 
ture—  you  w^ould  have  said,  "How  very  distinguished  it 
is  to  be  so  plain  ! "  Knowing  the  great  world  from  the 
core  to  the  cuticle,  and  on  that  knowledge  basing  au- 
thority and  position.  Colonel  Morley  was  not  calculating 
— not  cunning  —  not  suspicious.  His  sagacity  the  more 
quick  because  its  movements  were  straightforward.  Inti- 
mate with  the  greatest,  but  sought,  not  seeking.  Not  a 
flatterer  nor  a  parasite.  But  when  his  advice  was  asked 
(even  if  advice  necessitated  reproof),  giving  it  with  mili. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  155 

.ary  candor.  In  fine,  a  man  of  such  social  reputation  a 
rendered  him  an  ornament  and  prop  to  the  House  of 
Yipont ;  and  with  unsuspected  depths  of  intelligence  and 
feeling  which  lay  in  the  lower  strata  of  his  knowledge  of 
this  world,  to  witness  of  some  other  one,  and  justified 
Darrell  in  commending  a  boy  like  Lionel  Haughton  to 
the  Colonel's  friendly  care  and  admonitory  counsels. 
The  Colonel,  like  other  men,  had  his  weakness,  if  weak- 
ness it  can  be  called ;  he  believed  that  the  House  of 
Yipont  was  not  merely  the  Corinthian  capital,  but  the 
embattled  keep  —  not  merely  the  dulce  decus,  but  the 
prcesidium  columenque  j'erum  of  the  British  monarchy. 
He  did  not  boast  of  his  connection  with  the  House ;  he 
did  not  provoke  your  spleen  by  enlarging  on  its  manifold 
virtues ;  he  would  often  have  his  harmless  jest  against  its 
members  or  even  against  its  pretensions,  but  such  seem- 
ing evidences  of  forbearance  or  candor  were  cunning  de- 
vices to  mitigate  envy.  His  devotion  to  the  House  was 
not  obtrusive,  it  was  profound.  He  loved  the  House  of 
Yipont  for  the  sake  of  England,  he  loved  England  for 
the  sake  of  the  House  of  Yipont.  Had  it  been  possible, 
by  some  tremendous  reversal  of  the  ordinary  laws  of 
nature,  to  dissociate  the  cause  of  England  from  the  cause 
of  the  House  of  Yipont,  the  Colonel  would  have  said, 
'  Save  at  least  the  Ark  of  the  Constitution  1  and  rally 
icund  the  old  House!" 

The  Colonel  had  none  of  Guy  DarrelPs  infirmity  of 
family  pride  ;  he  cared  not  a  rush  for  mere  pedigrees  — 
much  too  liberal  and  enlightened  for  such  obsolete  pre- 


156  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

judices.  No  !  He  knew  the  world  too  well  not  to  be 
quite  aware  that  old  family  and  long  pedigrees  are  of  no 
use  to  a  man  if  he  has  not  some  money  or  some  merit. 
But  it  was  of  use  to  a  man  to  be  a  cousin  of  the  House 
of  Yipont,  though  without  any  money,  without  any  merit 
at  all.  It  was  of  use  to  be  part  and  parcel  of  a  British 
institution  :  it  was  of  use  to  have  a  legitimate  indefeasible 
right  to  share  in  the  administration  and  patronage  of  an 
empire,  on  which  (to  use  a  novel  illustration)  "  the  sun 
never  sets."  You  might  want  nothing  for  yourself-^r-the 
Colonel  and  the  Marquis  equally  wanted  nothing  for  them- 
selves ;  but  man  is  not  to  be  a  selfish  egotist !  Man  has 
cousins — his  cousins  may  want  something.  Demosthenes 
denounces,  in  words  that  inflame  every  manly  breast,  the 
ancient  Greek  who  does  not  love  his  Polis  or  State,  even 
though  he  take  nothing  from  it  but  barren  honor,  and 
contribute  toward  it — a  great  many  disagreeable  taxes. 
As  the  Polis  to  the  Greek,  was  the  House  of  Yipont  to 
Alban  Yipont  Morley.  It  was  the  most  beautiful  touch- 
ing affection  imaginable  !  Whenever  the  House  was  in 
difficulties — whenever  it  was  threatened  by  a  crisis — the 
Colonel  was  by  its  side,  sparing  no  pains,  neglecting  no 
means,  to  get  the  Ark  of  the  Constitution  back  into 
smooth  water.  That  duty  done,  he  retired  again  into 
private  life,  and  scorned  all  other  reward  than  the  still 
v.'hisper  of  applauding  conscience. 

"Yes,"  said  Alban  Morley,  whose  voice,  though  low 
and  subdued  in  tone,  was  extremely  distinct,  with  a  perfect 
enunciation,  "  Yes,  it  is  quite  true,  rav  neuhew  has  tat  en 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  151 

orders  —  his  defect  in  speech^  if  not  quite  removed,  hag 
ceased  to  be  any  obstacle,  even  to  eloquence  ;  an  occa- 
sional stammer  may  be  effective  —  it  increases  interest, 
and  when  the  right  word  comes,  there  is  the  charm  of 
surprise  in  it.  I  do  not  doubt  that  George  will  be  a  very 
distinguished  clergyman." 

Mr.  Carr  Yipont.  "  We  want  one  —  the  House  wants 
a  very  distinguished  clergyman ;  we  have  none  at  this 
moment  —  not  a  bishop  —  not  even  a  dean;  all  mere 
parish  parsons,  and  among  them  not  one  we  could  push. 
Yery  odd,  with  more  than  forty  livings  too.  But  the 
Yiponts  seldom  take  to  the  Church  kindly —  George  must 
he  pushed.  The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  we  want  a 
bishop  :  a  bishop  would  be  useful  in  the  present  crisis. 
(Looking  round  the  rooms  proudly,  and  softening  his 
voice.)  A  numerous  gathering,  Morley  !  This  demon- 
stration will  strike  terror  in  Downing  Street  —  eh  !  The 
old  House  stands  firm  —  never  was  a  family  so  united  ;  all 
here,  I  think  —  that  is,  all  worth  naming  —  all,  except  Sir 
James,  whom  Montfort  chooses  to  dislike,  and  George — 
and  George  comes  to-morrow." 

CoLOXEL  Morley.  "You  forget  the  most  eminent  of 
all  our  connections  —  the  one  who  could  indeed  strike 
terror  into  Downing  Street,  were  his  voice  to  be  heard 
again  !" 

Carr  Yipont.  "  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  Ah,  I  know  1 
—  Guy  Darrell.  His  wife  was  a  Yipont  —  and  he  is  not 
here.  But  he  has  long  since  ceased  to  communicate  with 
any  of  us  — the  only  connection  that  ever  fell  away  from 

II.  —  14  2l 


158  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

the  house  of  Yipont  —  especially  in  a  cfiisis  like  the 
present.  Singular  man  !  For  all  the  use  he  is  to  us  he 
might  as  well  be  dead  !  But  he  has  a  fine  fortune — what 
will  he  do  with  it  ? " 

The  Duchess.  "My  dear  Lady  Montfort,  you  have 
hurt  yourself  with  that  paper-cutter." 

Lady  Montfort.  "  No,  indeed.  Hush  !  we  are  dis- 
turbing Mr.  Carr  Yipont." 

The  Duchess,  in  awe  of  Carr  Yipont,  sinks  her  voice, 
and  gabbles  on  —  whisperously. 

Carr  Yipont  (resuming  the  subject).  "A  very  fine 
fortune  —  what  will  he  do  with  it  ? " 

Colonel  Morley,  "  I  don't  know,  but  I  had  a  letter 
from  him  some  months  ago," 

Carr  Yipont.  "  You  had  —  and  never  told  me  !  " 

Colonel  Morley.  "  Of  no  importance  to  you,  my  dear 
Carr.  His  letter  merely  introduced  to  me  a  charming 
young  fellow — a  kinsman  of  his  own  (no  Yipont)  — 
Lionel  Haughton,  son  of  poor  Charlie  Haughton,  whom 
you  may  remember." 

Carr  Yipont.  "  Yes,  a  handsome  scamp  —  went  to  the 
dogs.  So  Darrell  takes  up  Charlie's  son  —  what !  as  his 
heir  ?  " 

Colonel  Morley.  "  In  his  letter  to  me  he  anticipated 
that  question  in  the  negative." 

Carr  Yipont.   "Has  Darrell  any  nearer  kinsmen ? '* 

Colonel  Morley.  "Not  that  I  know  of." 

Carr  Yipont.  "  Perhaps  he  will  select  one  of  his  wife's 
family  for  his  heir  —  a  Yipont ;  I  should  not  wonder.'* 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  159 

Colonel  MoRLEY  (dryly).  "I  should.  But  wliy  may 
not  Darrell  marry  again  ?  I  always  thought  he  would  — 
I  think  so  still." 

Carr  Yipont  (glancing  toward  his  own  daughter 
Honoria).  "Well,  a  wife  well-chosen  might  restore  him 
to  society,  and  to  us.  Pity,  indeed,  that  so  great  an  in- 
tellect should  be  suspended  —  a  voice  so  eloquent  hushed. 
You  are  right ;  in  this  crisis,  Guy  Darrell  once  more  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  we  should  have  all  we  require — 
an  orator,  a  debater  I  Yery  odd,  but  at  this  moment  we 
have  no  speakers  —  we,  the  Yipontsl" 

Colonel  MoRLEY.   "Yourself?" 

Carr  Yipont.  "  You  are  too  kind.  I  can  speak  on 
occasions ;  but  regularly,  no.  Too  much  drudgery  — 
not  young  enough  to  take  to  it  now.  So  you  think 
Darrell  will  marry  again  ?  A  remarkably  fine-looking 
fellow  when  I  last  saw  him  ;  not  old  yet ;  I  dare  say,  well- 
preserved.  I  wish  I  had  thought  of  asking  him  here  -^ 
Montfort ! "  (Lord  Montfort,  with  one  or  two  male 
friends,  was  passing  by  toward  a  billiard-room,  opening 
through  a  side-door  from  the  regular  suite)  —  "  Montfort  I 
only  think,  we  forgot  to  invite  Guy  Darrell.  Is  it  too 
late  before  our  party  breaks  up  ?  " 

Lord  Montfort  (sullenly).  "I  don't  choose  Guy 
Darrell  to  be  invited  to  my  house." 

Carr  Yipont  was  literally  stunned  by  a  reply  so  con- 
tumacious. Lord  Montfort  demur  at  what  Carr  Yipont 
suggested  I     He  could  not  believe  his  senses. 

"  Not  choose,  my  dear  Montfort !  you  are  joking.     A 


160  WHAT    WILL    HE    TO    WITHIT? 

monstrous  clever  fellow,  Guy  Darrell,  and  at  this 
CRISIS  —  " 

"I  bate  clever  fellows  —  no  sucli  bores!"  said  Lord 
Montfort,  breaking  from  the  caressing  clasp  of  Carr 
Yipont,  and  stalking  away. 

''Spare  your  regrets,  my  dear  Carr,"  said  Colonel 
M  orley.  "  Darrell  is  not  in  England  —  I  rather  believe 
he  is  in  Yerona."  Therewith  the  Colonel  sauntered 
toward  the  group  gathered  round  the  piano.  A  little 
time  afterward  Lady  Montfort  escaped  from  the  Duchess, 
and,  mingling  courteously  with  her  livelier  guests,  found 
herself  close  to  Colonel  Morley.  "  Will  you  give  me  my 
revenge  at  chess  ?  "  she  asked,  with  her  rare  smile.  The 
Colonel  was  charmed.  As  they  sat  down  and  ranged 
their  men,  Lady  Montfort  remarked,  carelessly  — 

"  I  overheard  you  say  you  had  lately  received  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Darrell,  Does  he  write  as  if  well  —  cheerful  ? 
You  remember  that  I  was  much  with  his  daughter,  much 
in  his  house,  when  I  was  a  child.  He  was  ever  most 
kind  to  me."     Lady  Montfort's  voice  here  faltered. 

*'  He  writes  with  no  reference  to  himself,  his  health  or 
his  spirits.  But  his  young  kinsman  described  him  to  me 
as  in  good  health  —  wonderfully  young-looking  for  his 
years.  But  cheerful  —  no!  Darrell  and  1  entel-ed  the 
world  together  ;  we  were  friends  as  much  as  a  man  so 
busy  and  eminent  as  he  could  be  friends  with  a  man  like 
myself — indolent  by  habit,  and  obscure  out  of  Mayfair. 
I  know  his  nature  ;  we  both  know  something  of  his  familj 
Borrows.     He  can  not  be  happy  !  Impossible  I  —  alone  -- 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  I6l 

childless  —  secluded.  Poor  Darrell,  abroad  now  ;  in  Ve 
roua,  too  I  —  the  dullest  place  !  in  mourning  still  for  Eo- 
meo  and  Juliet  I  —  'Tis  your  turn  to  move.  In  his  letter 
Darrell  talked  of  going  on  to  Greece,  Asia  —  penetrating 
into  the  depths  of  Africa  —  the  wildest  schemes  1  Dear 
Country  Guy,  as  we  called  him  at  Eton  I  — what  a  career 
his  might  have  been  !  Don't  let  us  talk  of  him,  it  makes 
me  mournful.  Like  Goethe,  I  avoid  painful  subjects 
upon  principle." 

Lady  Montfort.  ''No  —  we  will  not  talk  of  him. 
No  —  I  take  the  Queen's  pawn.  No,  we  will  not  talk 
of  him!  — no  !  " 

The  game  proceeded  ;  the  Colonel  was  within  three 
moves  of  checkmating  his  adversary.  Forgetting  the 
resolution  come  to,  he  said,  as  she  paused,  and  seemed 
despondently  meditating  a  hopeless  defense  — 

"  Pray,  my  fair  cousin,  wdiat  makes  Montfort  dislike 
my  old  friend  Darrell  ?" 

"  Dislike  I  Does  he  ?  I  don't  know.  Vanquished  again. 
Colonel  Morlcy  !"  She  rose ;  and,  as  he  restored  the  chess- 
men to  their  box,  she  leaned  thoughtfully  over  the  table. 

"This  young  kinsman  —  will  he  not  be  a  comfort  to 
Mr.  Darrell  ? 

"  He  would  be  a  comfort  and  a  pride  to  a  father ;  but 
to  Darrell,  so  distant  a  kinsman  —  comfort! — why  and 
how  ?  Darrell  will  provide  for  him,  that  is  all.  A  very 
gentlemanlike  young  man  —  gone  to  Paris  by  ray  advice 
—  'vants  polish  and  knowledge  of  life.  When  he  comes 
14*  L 


1(>2  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

back  he  must  enter  society ;  I  have  put  his  name  up  at 
White's  ;  may  I  introduce  him  to  you  ?" 

Lady  Montfort  hesitated,  and,  after  a  pause,  said  almost 
rudely,  "No." 

She  left  the  Colonel,  slightly  shrugging  his  shoulders^ 
and  passed  into  the  billiard-room  with  a  quick  step. 
Some  ladies  were  already  there,  looking  at  the  players. 
Lord  Montfort  was  chalking  his  cue.  Lady  Montfort 
walked  straight  up  to  him ;  her  color  was  heightened  ; 
her  lip  was  quivering ;  she  placed  her  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der with  a  wifelike  boldness.  It  seemed  as  if  she  had  come 
there  to  seek  him  from  an  impulse  of  affection.  She  asked 
with  a  hurried  fluttering  kindness  of  voice,  "  If  he  had 
been  successful  ?"  and  called  him  by  his  Christian  name. 
Lord  Montfort's  countenance,  before  merely  apathetic, 
now  assumed  an  expression  of  extreme  distaste.  "  Come 
to  teach  me  to  make  a  cannon,  I  suppose  !"  he  said, 
mutteringly,  and,  turning  from  her,  contemplated  the  balls 
and  missed  the  cannon. 

"  Rather  in  my  way.  Lady  Montfort,"  said  he  then, 
and  retiring  to  a  corner,  said  no  more. 

Lady  Montfort's  countenance  became  still  more  flushed. 
She  lingered  a  moment,  returned  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  was  uncommonly  animated, 
gracious,  fascinating.  As  she  retired  wdth  her  lady 
guests  for  the  night,  she  looked  round,  saw  Colonel  Mor- 
le}^  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  "  Your  nephew  comea 
here  to-morrow%"  said  she,  "my  old  playfellow;  impossi' 
ble  quite  to  forget  old  friends — good-night." 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  163 


CHAPTER   IX. 

**Les  extremes  se  touclicnt." 

The  next  day  the  gentlemeu  were  dispersed  out  oi 
doors  —  a  large  shooting  party.  Those  who  did  not  shoot, 
walked  forth  to  inspect  the  racing  stud  or  the  model  farm. 
The  ladies  had  takeu  their  walk ;  some  were  in  their  own 
rooms,  some  in  the  reception  rooms,  at  work,  or  reading, 
or  listening  to  the  piano — Honoria  Carr  Yipont  again 
performing.  Lady  Montfort  was  absent ;  Lady  Selina 
kindly  supplied  the  hostess'  place.  Lady  Selina  was  em- 
broidering, with  great  skill  and  taste,  a  pair  of  slippers 
for  her  eldest  boy,  who  was  just  entered  at  Oxford,  having 
left  Eton  with  a  reputation  of  being  the  neatest  dresser, 
and  not  the  worst  cricketer,  of  that  renowned  educational 
institute.  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  fine  ladies  are 
not  sometimes  very  fond  mothers  and  affectionate  wives. 
Lady  Selina,  beyond  her  family  circle,  was  trivial,  unsym- 
pathizing,  cold-hearted,  supercilious  by  temperament, 
never  kind  but  through  policy,  artificial  as  clock-work. 
But  in  her  own  home,  to  her  husband,  her  children.  Lady 
Selina  was  a  very  good  sort  of  woman.  Devotedly  at- 
tached to  Carr  Vipont,  exaggerating  his  talents,  thinking 
him  the  first  man  in  England,  careful  of  his  honor,  zealous 
for  his  interests,  soothing  in  his  cares,  tender  in  his  ail- 
ments.    To  her  girls  prudent  and  watchful  —  to  her  boyg 


164  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT.^ 

indulgent  and  caressing.  Minutely  attentive  to  the  edu- 
cation of  the  first,  according  to  her  high-bred  ideas  of 
education  —  and  they  really  were  "superior"  girls,  with 
much  instruction  and  well-balanced  minds.  Less  authori- 
tative with  the  last,  because  boys  being  not  under  her 
immediate  control,  her  sense  of  responsi'lDility  allowed  her 
to  display  more  fondness  and  less  dignity  in  her  inter- 
course with  them  than  with  young  ladies  who  must  learn 
from  her  example,  as  well  as  her  precepts,  the  patrician 
decorum  which  becomes  the  smooth  result  of  impulse  re- 
strained and  emotion  checked.  Boys  might  make  a  noise 
in  the  world,  girls  should  make  none.  Lady  Selina,  then, 
was  working  the  slippers  for  her  absent  son,  her  heart 
being  full  of  him  at  that  moment.  She  was  describing  his 
character,  and  expatiating  on  his  promise  to  two  or  three 
attentive  listeners,  all  interested,  as  being  themselves  of 
the  Yipont  brood,  in  the  probable  destiny  of  the  heir  to 
the  Carr  Yiponts. 

"In  short,"  said  Lady  Selina,  winding  up,  "as  soon 
as  Reginald  is  of  age  we  shall  get  him  into  Parliament. 
Carr  has  always  lamented  that  he  himself  was  not  broken 
into  office  early ;  Reginald  must  be.  Nothing  so  requisite 
for  public  men  as  early  training  —  makes  them  practical, 
and  not  too  sensitive  to  what  those  horrid  newspaper  men 
say.  That  was  Pitt's  great  advantage.  Reginald  has 
ambition  ;  he  should  have  occupation  to  keep  him  out  of 
mischief.  It  is  an  anxious  thing  for  a  mother,  when  a 
son  is  good-looking — such  danger  of  his  being  spoiled  by 
the  women — yes,  my  dear,  it  is  a  small  foot,  very  small 
—  his  father's  foot." 


TV  II  AT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  165 

"  If  Lord  Moutfort  should  have  no  family,"  said  a 
somewhat  distant  and  subaltern  Yipont,  whisperiugly  and 
hesitating,  "does  not  the  title — " 

"  No,  my  dear,"  interrupted  Lady  Selina ;  "  no,  the 
title  does  not  come  to  us.  It  is  a  melancholy  thought, 
but  the  marquisate,  in  that  case,  is  extinct.  No  other 
heir-male  from  Gilbert,  the  first  Marquis.  Carr  says 
there  is  even  likely  to  be  some  dispute  about  the  earldom. 
The  Barony,  of  course,  is  safe ;  goes  with  the  Irish 
estates,  and  most  of  the  English  —  and  goes  (don't  you 
know?) — to  Sir  James  Yipont,  the  last  person  who  ought 
to  have  it ;  the  quietest,  stupidest  creature  ;  not  brought 
up  to  the  sort  of  thing  —  a  mere  gentleman  farmer  on  a 
small  estate  in  Devonshire." 

"  He  is  not  here  ?  " 

"  No.  Lord  Montfort  does  not  like  him.  Yery  natural. 
Nobody  does  like  his  heir,  if  not  his  own  child,  and  some 
people  don't  even  like  their  own  eldest  sons  !  Shocking ; 
but  so  it  is.  Montfort  is  the  kindest,  most  tractable  being 
that  ever  was,  except  where  he  takes  a  dislike.  He  dis- 
likes two  or  three  people  very  much." 

"  True ;  how  he  did  dislike  poor  Mrs.  Lyndsay  1  "  said 
one  of  the  listeners,  smiling. 

"  Mrs.  Lyndsay,  yes  —  dear  Lady  Montfort's  mother. 
I  can't  say  I  pitied  her,  though  I  was  sorry  for  Lady 
Montfort.  How  Mrs.  Lyndsay  ever  took  in  Montfort 
for  Caroline  I  can't  conceive  !  How  she  had  the  face  to 
think  of  it  I  He,  a  mere  youth  at  the  time  !  Kept  secret 
from  all  his  family  —  even  from  his  grandmother  —  the 


166  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT? 

darkest  transactiou.     I  don't  wonder  that  he  never  for- 
gave it." 

First  Listener.  "  Caroline  has  beauty  enough  to — " 

Lady  Selina  (interrupting).  "Beauty,  of  course  — 
no  one  can  deny  that.  But  not  at  all  suited  to  such  a 
position  ;  not  brought  up  to  the  sort  of  thing.  Poor 
Montfort !  he  should  have  married  a  different  kind  of 
woman  altogether  —  a  woman  like  his  grandmother,  the 
last  Lady  Montfort.  Caroline  does  nothing  for  the 
House — nothing — has  not  even  a  child — most  unfortunate 
affair." 

Second  Listener.  "  Mrs.  Lyndsay  was  very  poor,  was 
she  not  ?  Caroline,  I  suppose,  had  no  opportunity  of 
forming  those  tastes  and  habits  which  are  necessary  for 
—  for—" 

Lady  Selina  (helping  the  listener).  "  For  such  a 
position  and  such  a  fortune.  You  are  quito  right,  my 
dear.  People  brought  up  in  one  way  can  not  accommo- 
date themselves  to  another ;  and  it  is  odd,  but  I  have  ob- 
served that  people  brought  up  poor  can  accomnodaie 
themselves  less  to  being  very  rich  than  people  b  ought 
up  rich  to  accommodate  themselves  to  being  ven  poor. 
As  Carr  says,  in  his  pointed  way,  '  it  is  easier  to  stoop 
than  to  climb.'  Yes;  Mrs.  Lyndsay  was,  you  k'  ow,  a 
daughter  of  Seymour  Yipont,  who  was  for  so  man}  years 
in  tlie  Administration,  with  a  fair  income  from  his  .salary, 
and  nothing  out  of  it.  She  married  one  of  the  Scotch 
Lyndsays — good  family,  of  course — with  a  very  moderate 
property.     She  was  left  a  widow  young,  with   an   only 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO     WITH    IT?  161 

child,   Caroline.     Came  to  town,  with  a  small  jointure. 
The  late  Lady  Montfort  was  very  kind  to  her.     So  were 
we  all  —  took  her  up  —  pretty  woman  —  pretty  manners 
— worldly — oh,  very  !    I  don't  like  worldly  people.    Well, 
])u\   all  of  a  sudden,  a  dreadful  thing  happened.     The 
heir-at-law  dispute  I  the  jointure,  denied  that  Lyndsay 
had  any  right  to  make  settlements  on  the  Scotch  property 
—  very  complicated  business.     But,  luckily  for  her,  Vi- 
pont  Crooke's  daughter,  her  cousin  and  intimate  friend, 
had  married  Darrell — the  famous  Darrell — who  was  then 
at  the  bar.     It  is  very  useful  to  have  cousins  married  to 
clever  people.     He  was  interested  in  her  case,  took  it 
up.     I  believe  it  did  not  come  on  in  the  courts  in  which 
Darrell  practiced.     But  he  arranged  all  the  evidence,  in- 
spected the  briefs,  spent  a  great  deal  of  his  own  money  in 
getting  up  the  case  —  and,  in  fact,  he  gained  her  cause, 
though  he  could  not  be  her  counsel.   ^People  did  say  that 
she  was  so  grateful  that,  after  his  wife's  death,  she  had  set 
her  heart  on  becoming  Mrs.  Darrell   the    second.     But 
Darrell  was  then  quite  wrapped  up  in  politics  —  the  last 
man  to  fall  in  love  —  and  only  looked  bored  when  women 
fell  in  love  with  him,  which  a  good  many  did.     Grand- 
looking  creature,  my  dear,  and  quite  the  rage  for  a  year 
or  two.      However,  Mrs.  Lyndsay  all  of  a  sudden  went 
off  to  Paris,  and  there  Montfort  saw  Caroline,  and  was 
caught.     Mrs.  Lyndsay,  no  doubt,  calculated  on  living 
with  her  daughter,  having  the  run  of  Montfort  House  in 
town  and  Montfort  Court  in  the  country.     But  Montfort 


168  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

is  deeper  than  people  think  for.  No,  he  never  forgavu 
her.  .She  was  never  asked  here  —  took  it  to  heart,  went 
to  Rome,  and  died." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  George  Morley, 
now  the  Eev.  George  Morley,  entered,  jnst  arrived  to 
join  his  cousins. 

Some  knew  him,  some  did  not.  Lady  Selina,  who 
made  it  a  point  to  know  all  the  cousins,  rose  graciously, 
put  aside  the  slippers,  and  gave  him  two  fingers.  She 
was  astonished  to  find  him  not  nearly  so  shy  as  he  used 
to  be  —  wonderfully  improved  ;  at  his  ease,  cheerful,  ani- 
mated. The  man  now  was  in  his  right  place,  and  fol- 
lowing hope  on  the  bent  of  inclination.  Few  men  are 
shy  when  in  their  right  places.  He  asked  after  Lady 
Montfort.  She  was  in  her  own  small  sitting-room,  writing 
letters  —  letters  that  Carr  Vipont  had  entreated  her  to 
write  —  correspondence  useful  to  the  House  of  Yipont. 
Before  long,  however,  a  servant  entered  to  say  that  Lady 
Montfort  would  be  very  happy  to  see  Mr.  Morley. 
George  followed  the  servant  into  that  unpretending 
sitting-room,  with  its  simple  chintzes  and  quiet  book- 
shelves—  room  that  would  not  have  been  too  fine  for  a 
20ttage. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  169 


CHAPTER   X. 

[n  every  life,  go  it  fast,  go  it  slow,  there  are  critical  pausing 
places.  When  the  journey  is  renewed,  the  face  of  the  country 
is  changed. 

How  well  she  suited  that  simple  room — herself  so  sim- 
ply dressed — her  marvellous  beauty  so  exquisitely  subdued. 
She  looked  at  home  there,  as  if  all  of  home  that  the  house 
3ould  give  were  there  collected. 

She  had  finished  and  sealed  the  momentous  letters,  and 
had  come,  with  a  sense  of  relief,  from  the  table  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room,  on  which  those  letters,  ceremo- 
nious and  conventional,  had  been  written  —  come  to  the 
window,  which,  though  mid-winter,  was  open,  and  the 
red-breast,  with  whom  she  had  made  friends,  hopped 
boldly  almost  within  reach,  looking  at  her  with  bright 
eyes,  and  head  curiously  aslant.  By  the  window  a  single 
chair  and  a  small  reading-desk,  with  the  book  lying  open. 
The  short  day  was  not  far  from  its  close,  but  there  was 
ample  light  still  in  the  skies,  and  a  serene  if  chilly  stillness 
in  the  air  without. 

Though  expecting  the  relation  she  had  just  summoned 
to  her  presence,  I  fear  she  had  half  forgotten  him.  She 
was  standing  by  the  window  deep  in  reverie  as  he  entered, 
BO  deep  that  she  started  when  his  voice  struck  her  eaf 
and  he  stood  before  her.     She  recovered  herself  quickly, 

II.  — 15 


no  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

however,  and  said  with  even  more  than  her  ordinary  kind 
liness  of  tone  and  manner  toward  the  scholar  —  "I  am 
so  glad  to  see  and  congratulate  you." 

"And  1  so  glad  to  receive  your  congratulations,"  an- 
swered the  scholar,  in  smooth,  slow  voice,  without  a 
stutter. 

"  But,  George,  how  is  this  ?  "  asked  Lady  Montfort. 
*'  Bring  that  chair,  sit  down  here,  and  tell  me  all  about 
it.  You  wrote  me  word  you  were  cured,  at  least  suffi- 
ciently to  remove  your  noble  scruples.  You  did  not  say 
how.  Your  uncle  tells  me  by  patient  will  and  resolute 
practice." 

"  Under  good  guidance.  But  I  am  going  to  confide  to 
you  a  secret,  if  you  will  promise  to  keep  it." 

"  Oh,  you  may  trust  me  ;  I  have  no  female  friends." 

The  clergyman  smiled,  and  spoke  at  once  of  the  lessons 
he  had  received  from  the  basket-maker. 

"  I  have  his  permission,"  he  said,  in  conclusion,  "  to 
confide  the  service  he  rendered  me,  the  intimacy  that  has 
sprung  up  between  us,  but  to  you  alone  —  not  a  word  to 
your  guests.  When  you  have  once  seen  him,  you  will 
understand  why  an  eccentric  man,  who  has  known  better 
days,  would  shrink  from  the  impertinent  curiosity  of  idle 
customers.  Contented  with  his  humble  livelihood,  he 
asks  but  liberty  and  repose." 

"That  I  already  comprehend,"  said  Lady  Montfort, 
half  sighing,  half  smiling.  "But  my  curiosity  shall  not 
molest  him,  and  when  I  visit  the  village,  I  will  pa.ss  by 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  171 

''  Nay,  my  dear  Lady  Montfort,  that  would  be  to  refuse 
the  favor  I  am  about  to  ask,  which  is,  that  you  would 
come  with  me  to  that  very  cottage.  It  would  so  please 
him." 

"  Please  him  —  why  ?  " 

"  Because  this  poor  man  has  a  young  female  grand- 
child, and  he  is  so  anxious  that  you  should  see  and  be 
kind  to  her,  and  because,  too,  he  seems  most  tenacious  to 
remain  in  his  present  residence.  The  cottage,  of  course, 
belongs  to  Lord  Montfort,  and  is  let  to  him  by  the  bailiff, 
and  if  you  deign  to  feel  interest  in  him,  his  tenure  is  safe." 

Lady  Montfort  looked  down,  and  colored.  She  thought, 
perhaps,  how  false  a  security  her  protection,  and  how 
slight  an  influence  her  interest  would  be,  but  she  did  not 
say  so.  George  went  on ;  and  so  eloquently  and  so 
touchingly  did  he  describe  both  grandsire  and  grandchild, 
so  skillfully  did  he  intimate  the  mystery  which  hung  over 
them,  that  Lady  Montfort  became  much  moved  by  his 
narrative,  and  willingly  promised  to  accompany  him 
across  the  park  to  the  basket-maker's  cottage  the  first 
opportunity.  But  when  one  has  sixty  guests  in  one's 
house,  one  has  to  wait  for  an  opportunity  to  escape  from 
them  unremarked.  And  the  opportunity,  in  fact,  did  not 
come  for  many  days  —  not  till  the  party  broke  up  —  save 
one  or  two  dowager  she-cousins  who  "gave  no  trouble," 
and  one  or  two  bachelor  he-cousins  whom  my  lord  re- 
tained to  consummate  the  slaughter  of  pheasants,  and 
play  at  billiards  in  the  dreary  intervals  between  sunset 
and  dinner  —  dinner  and  bedtime. 


172  WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

Then  one  cheerful  frosty  noon  George  Morlej  and  his 
fair  cousin  walked  boldly,  en  evidence,  before  the  prying 
ghostly  windows,  across  the  broad  gravel- walks  —  gained 
the  secluded  shrubbery,  the  solitary  deeps  of  parkland  — 
skirted  the  wide  sheet  of  water  —  and  passing  through  a 
private  wicket  in  the  paling,  suddenly  came  upon  the 
patch  of  osier-ground  and  humble  garden,  which  were 
backed  by  the  basket-maker's  cottage. 

As  they  entered  those  lowly  precincts  a  child's  laugh 
was  borne  to  their  ears — a  child's  silvery,  musical,  mirth- 
ful laugh  ;  it  was  long  since  the  great  lady  had  heard  a 
laugh  like  that  —  a  happy  child's  natural  laugh.  She 
paused  and  listened  with  a  strange  pleasure.  "  Yes," 
whispered  George  Morley,  "stop  —  and  hush  !  there  they 
are." 

Waife  was  seated  on  the  stump  of  a  tree,  materials  for 
his  handicraft  lying  beside,  neglected.  Sophy  was  stand- 
ing before  him  —  he,  raising  his  finger  as  in  reproof,  and 
striving  hard  to  frown.  As  the  intruders  listened,  they 
overheard  that  he  was  striving  to  teach  her  the  rudiments 
of  French  dialogue,  and  she  was  laughing  merrily  at  her 
own  blunders  and  at  the  solemn  affectation  of  the  shocked 
schoolmaster.  Lady  Montfort  noted  with  no  unnatural 
surprise  the  purity  of  idiom  and  of  accent,  with  which 
this  singular  basket-maker  was  unconsciously  displaying 
his  perfect  knowledge  of  a  language,  which  the  best  edu- 
cated English  gentleman  of  that  generation,  nay,  even 
of  this,  rarely  speaks  with  accuracy  and  elegance.  But 
her  attention  was  diverted  immediately  from  the  teacher 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  173 

ij  the  face  of  the  sweet  pupil.  Women  have  a  quick 
appreciation  of  beauty  in  their  own  sex  —  and  women, 
who  are  themselves  beautiful,  not  the  least.  Irresistibly 
Lady  Montfort  felt  attracted  toward  that  innocent  coun- 
tenance, so  lively  in  its  mirth,  and  yet  so  softly  gay.  Sir 
fsaac,  who  had  hitherto  lain  perdu,  watching  the  move- 
ments of  a  thrush  amidst  a  holly-bush,  now  started  up 
tvith  a  bark.  Waife  rose  —  Sophy  turned  half  in  flight. 
The  visitors  approached. 

Here,  slowly,  lingeringly,  let  fall  the  curtain.  In  the 
frank  license  of  narrative,  years  will  have  rolled  away  ere 
the  curtain  rise  again.  Events  that  may  influence  a  life 
often  date  from  moments  the  most  serene,  from  things  that 
appear  as  trivial  and  unnoticeable  as  the  great  lady's  visit 
to  the  basket-maker's  cottage.  Which  of  those  lives  will 
that  visit  influence  hereafter  —  the  woman's,  the  child's, 
the  vagrant's?  Whose?  Probably  little  that  passes  now 
would  aid  conjecture,  or  be  a  visible  link  in  the  chain  of 
destiny.  A  few  desultory  questions  —  a  few  guarded  an- 
swers—  a  look  or  so,  a  musical  syllable  or  two  exchanged 
between  the  lady  and  the  child  —  a  basket  bought,  or  a 
promise  to  call  again.  Nothing  worth  the  telling.  Be 
it  then  untold.  Yiew  only  the  scene  itself  as  the  curtain 
drops  reluctantly.  The  rustic  cottage,  its  garden-door 
open,  and  open  its  old-fashioned  lattice  casements.  You 
can  see  how  neat  and  cleanly,  how  eloquent  of  healthful 
poverty,  how  remote  from  squalid  penury,  the  whitewashed 
walls,  the  homely  furniture  within.  Creepers  lately  trained 
around  the  door-way.  Christmas  holly,  with  berries  red 
15*  2m 


\.\A  WHAT     WILL     HE     DO     WITH    IT? 

against  the  window-panes  ;  the  beehive  yonder  ;  a  starling, 
too,  outside  the  threshold,  in  its  wicker  cage.  In  the 
background  (all  the  rest  of  the  neighboring  hamlet  out 
of  sight),  the  church-spire  tapering  away  into  the  clear 
blue  wintry  sky.  All  has  an  air  of  repose  —  of  safety 
Close  beside  you  is  the  Presence  of  home  —  that  inefifable, 
sheltering,  loving  Presence  —  which,  amidst  solituie, 
murmurs  "not  solitary  ;  "  a  Presence  unvonchsafed  to  tho 
great  lady  in  the  palace  she  has  left.  And  the  lady  her- 
self ?  She  is  resting  on  the  rude  gnarled  root-stump  from 
which  the  vagrant  had  risen ;  she  has  drawn  Sophy  to- 
ward her  ;  she  has  taken  the  child's  hand  ;  she  is  speaking 
now  —  now  listening  ;  and  on  her  face  kindness  looks  like 
happiness.  Perhaps  she  is  happy  at  that  moment.  And 
Waife  ?  he  is  turning  aside  his  weather-beaten,  mobile 
countenance,  with  his  hand  anxiously  trembling  upon  the 
young  scholar's  arm.  The  scholar  whispers,  "  Are  you 
satisfied  with  me  ?  "  and  Waife  answers  in  a  voice  as  low 
but  more  broken,  "  God  reward  you  !  Oh,  joy !  —  if  my 
pretty  one  has  found  at  last  a  woman  friend  I  "  Poor 
vagabond,  he  has  now  a  calm  asylum  —  a  fixed  humble 
livelihood  —  more  than  that,  he  has  just  achieved  an  ob- 
ject fondly  cherished.  His  past  life  —  alas  !  what  has  he 
done  with  it  ?  His  actual  life  —  broken  fragment  though 
it  be  —  is  at  rest  now.     But  still  the  everlasting  questiou 

—  mocking,  terrible  question — with  its  phrasing  of  farce 
and  its  enigmas  of  tragical  sense  —  "What  will  he  do 
WITH  it?"    Do  with  what?    The  all  that  remains  to  him 

—  the  all  he  holds  !  —  the  all  which  man  himself,  betwixt 


WHAT     WILL    HE     DO     WITH    IT?  175 

free-will  and  pre-de-eree  is  permitted  to  do.  Ask  not  the 
Tagrant  alone  —  ask  each  of  the  four  there  assembled  on 
that  flying  bridge  called  the  Moment.     Time  before  thee 

—  what  wilt  thou  do  with  it?  Ask  thyself!  —  ask  the 
wisest  I  Oat  of  effort  to  answer  that  question,  what 
dream-schools  have  risen,  never  wholly  to  perish  I  The 
science  of  seers  on  the  Chaldee's  Pur-Tor,  or  in  the  rock- 
caves  of  Delphi,  gasped  after  and  grasped  at  by  horn- 
handed  mechanics  to-day  in  their  lanes  and  alleys.  To 
the  heart  of  the  populace  sink  down  the  blurred  relics  of 
what  once  was  the  lore  of  the  secretest  sages  —  hiero- 
glyphical  tatters  which  the  credulous  vulgar  attempt  to 
interpret  —  "  What  will  he  do  with  it  ?  "  Ask  Merle 
and  his  Crystal !  But  the  curtain  descends  1  Yet  a  mo- 
ment, there  they  are  —  age  and  childhood  —  poverty, 
wealth,  station,  vagabondage ;  the  preacher's'  sacred 
learning  and  august  ambition  ;  fancies  of  dawning  reason  ; 

—  hopes  of  intellect  matured ;  —  memories  of  existence 
wrecked;  household  sorrows  —  untold  regrets  —  elegy 
and  epic  in  low,  close,  human  sighs,  to  which  Poetry  never 
yet  gave  voice  —  all  for  the  moment  personified  there  be- 
fore you  —  a  glimpse  for  the  guess — no  more.  Lower 
and  lower  falls  the  curtain  1     All  is  blank  I 


BOOK    SIXTH 


CHAPTER   I. 

Being  an  Address  to  the  Reader. 

Seeing  the  length  to  which  this  Work  has  ah'eady  run, 
and  the  space  it  must  yet  occupy  in  the  columns  of  Maga, 
it  is  but  fair  to  the  Reader  to  correct  any  inconsiderate 
notion  that  the  Author  does  not  know  "  what  he  will  do 
with  it."  Learn,  then,  0  friendly  reader,  that  no  matter 
the  number  of  months  through  which  it  may  glide  its  way 
to  thine  eyes  —  learn  that  with  the  single  exception  of  the 
chapter  now  respectfully  addressed  to  thee,  the  whole 

OF    THIS    WORK    HAS    BEEN    LONG    SINCE    COMPLETED    AND 
TIUNSFERRED   FROM    THE   DESK   OF    THE    AUTHOPv   TO    THE 

H-\NDS  OF  THE  Publisher. 

On  the  22d  of  January  last  —  let  the  day  be  marked 
with  a  white  stone  !  — the  Author's  labors  were  brought 
to  a  close,  and  "What  he  will  do  with  it"  is  no  longer  a 
sc-'iet  —  at  least  to  the  Editor  of  Maga. 

May  this  information  establish,  throughout  the  rest  of 

tne  journey  to  be  travelled  together,  that  tacit  confidence 

between  Author  and  Keader  which  is  so  important  to 

mutual  satisfaction  i 

(178) 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  171 

Firstly.  —  The  Reader  may  thus  have  the  complaisance 
to  look  at  each  iustallment  as  the  component  portion  of 
a  completed  whole ;  comprehending  that  it  can  not  be 
within  the  scope  of  the  Author's  design  to  aim  at  a 
separate  effect  for  each  separate  Number ;  but  rather  to 
carry  on  through  each  Number  the  eflfect  which  he  deems 
most  appropriate  to  his  composition  when  regarded  as  a 
whole.  And  here  may  it  be  permitted  to  dispel  an 
erroneous  idea  which,  to  judge  by  current  criticism, 
appears  to  be  sufficiently  prevalent  to  justify  the  egotism 
of  comment.  It  seems  to  be  supposed  that,  because  this 
work  is  published  from  month  to  month  in  successive  in- 
stallments, therefore  it  is  written  from  month  to  month,  as 
a  newspaper  article  may  be  dashed  off  from  day  to  day. 
Such  a  supposition  is  adverse  to  all  the  principles  by 
which  works  that  necessitate  integrity  of  plan,  and  a 
certain  harmony  of  proportion,  are  constructed ;  more 
especially  those  works  which  aim  at  artistic  representa- 
tions of  human  life  ;  for,  in  human  life,  we  must  presume 
that  nothing  is  left  to  chance,  and  chance  must  be  no  less 
rigidly  banished  from  the  art  by  which  human  life  is  de- 
picted. That  art  admits  no  hap-hazard  chapters,  no  un- 
certainty as  to  the  consequences  that  must  ensue  from  the 
incidents  it  decides  on  selecting.  Would  the  artist,  on 
after-thought,  alter  a  consequence,  he  must  reconsider  the 
whole  chain-work  of  incident  which  led  to  one  inevitable 
result,  and  which  would  be  wholly  defective  if  it  could  be 
,iiade  to  lead  to  another.  Hence,  a  work  of  this  kind  can 
aot  be  written  currente  calamo,  from  month  to  month ; 

M 


1T8  WHA.T    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

the  entire  design  must  be  broadlv  set  forth  before  the  first 
page  goes  to  press  ;  and  large  sections  of  the  whole  must 
be  always  completed  in  advance,  in  order  to  allow  time 
for  deliberate  forethought,  and  fair  opportunity  for  such 
revisions,  as  an  architect,  having  prepared  all  his  plans, 
must  still  admit  to  his  building,  should  difficulties,  not 
f(  reseen,  sharpen  the  invention  to  render  each  variation 
in  detail  an  improvement  consistent  to  the  original  design. 
Secondly.  — May  the  Reader  —  accepting  this  profes- 
sion of  the  principles  by  which  is  constructed  the  history 
that  invites  his  attention,  and  receiving  now  the  assurance 
that  the  Work  has  actually  passed  out  of  the  Author's 
hands,  is  as  much  a  thing  done  and  settled  as  any  book 
composed  by  him  twenty  years  ago  —  banish  all  fear  lest 
each  Number  should  depend  for  its  average  merit  on  ac- 
cidental circumstances  —  such  as  impatient  haste,  or  vary- 
ing humor,  or  capricious  health,  or  the  demand  of  more 
absorbing  and  practical  pursuits,  in  which,  during  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  the  year,  it  has  long  been  the  Author's 
lot  to  be  actively  engaged.  Certes,  albeit  in  the  course 
of  his  life  he  has  got  through  a  reasonable  degree  of 
labor,  and  has  habitually  relied  on  application  to  supply 
his  defects  in  genius ;  yet  to  do  one  thing  at  a  time  is  the 
practical  rule  of  those  by  whom,  in  the  course  of  time, 
many  things  have  been  accomplished.  And  accordingly 
a  work,  even  so  trivial  as  this  may  be  deemed,  is  not 
composed  in  the  turmoil  of  metropolitan  life,  nor  when 
other  occupations  demand  attention,  but  in  the  quiet 
ioisure  of  ^•ural  shades,  and  in  those  portions  of  the  year 


WHAT     WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  179 

which  fellow-worlimen  devote  to  relaxation  and  amusC' 
ment.  For  even  in  holidays,  something  of  a  holiday-task 
adds  a  zest  to  the  hours  of  ease. 

Lastly.  —  Since  this  survey  of  our  modern  world 
requires  a  large  and  a  crowded  canvas,  and  would  be  in- 
complete did  it  not  intimate  those  points  of  contact  in 
which  the  private  touches  the  public  life  of  Social  Man, 
60  it  is  well  that  the  Reader  should  fully  understand  that 
all  reference  to  such  grand  events,  as  political  "  crises " 
and  changes  of  Government,  were  written  many  months 
ago,  and  have  no  reference  whatever  to  the  actual  occur- 
rences of  the  passing  day.  Holding  it,  indeed,  a  golden 
maxim  that  practical  politics  and  ideal  art  should  be  kept 
wholly  distinct  from  each  other,  and  seeking  in  this  Narra- 
tive to  write  that  which  may  be  read  with  unembittered 
and  impartial  pleasure  by  all  classes  and  all  parties  — 
nay,  perchance,  in  years  to  come,  by  the  children  of  those 
whom  he  now  addresses  —  the  Author  deems  it  indis- 
pensable to  such  ambition  to  preserve  the  neutral  ground 
of  imaginative  creation,  not  only  free  from  those  personal 
portraitures  which  are  fatal  to  comprehensive  and  typical 
delineations  of  character,  but  from  all  intentional  appeals 
to  an  interest  which  can  be  but  momentary,  if  given  to 
subjects  that  best  befit  the  leading  articles  of  political 
journals.  His  realm,  if  it  hope  to  endure,  is  in  the  con- 
ditions, the  humors,  the  passions  by  which  one  general 
phase  of  society  stands  forth  in  the  broad  light  of  our 
common  human  nature,  never  to  be  cast  aside,  as  obsolete 
and  out  of  fashion,  "  into  the  portion  of  weeds  and  worn- 
out  faces." 


180  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

"Reader !  this  exordium  is  intended,  by  way  of  preface 
to  that  more  important  division  of  tliis  work,  in  which 
the  one-half  the  circle  rounds  itself  slowly  on  to  com- 
plete the  whole.  Forgive  the  exordium ;  for,  rightly 
considered,  it  is  but  an  act  of  deference  to  thee.  Didst 
thou  ever  reflect,  0  Reader !  on  what  thou  art  to  an 
Author  ?  Art  thou  aware  of  the  character  of  dignity  and 
power  with  which  he  invests  thee  ?  To  thee  the  Author 
is  but  an  unit  in  the  great  sum  of  intellectual  existence. 
To  the  Author,  thou,  0  Reader  !  art  the  collective  re- 
presentative of  a  multifarious  abiding  audience.  To 
thee  the  Author  is  but  the  machine,  more  or  less  defec- 
tive, that  throws  off  a  kind  of  work  usually  so  ephemeral 
that  seldom  wilt  thou  even  pause  to  examine  why  it 
please  or  displease,  for  a  day,  the  taste  that  may  change 
with  the  morrow.  But  to  him,  the  Author,  thou  art,  0 
Reader !  a  confidant  and  a  friend,  often  nearer  and 
dearer  than  any  one  else  in  the  world.  All  other  friends 
are  mortal  as  himself;  they  can  but  survive  for  a  few 
years  the  dust  he  must  yield  to  the  grave.  But  there, 
in  his  eye,  aloof  and  aloft  forever,  stands  the  Reader, 
more  and  more  his  friend  as  Time  rolls  on.  'Tis  to  thee 
that  he  leaves  his  grandest  human  bequest,  his  memory 
find  his  name.  If  secretly  he  deem  himself  not  appre 
ciated  in  his  own  generation,  he  hugs  the  belief,  often 
chimerical  and  vain,  but  ever  sweet  and  c-onsoling,  that 
in  some  generation  afar  awaits  the  Reader  destined  at 
)ast  to  do  him  justice.  With  thee,  the  Author  is,  of  all 
men,  he   to  whom    old  age   comes   the    soonest.     How 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO     WITH     IT?  IHI 

qnickly  thou  hastenest  to  say,  "  Not  what  he  was  \  Vigor 
is  waning  —  invention  is  flagging — past  is  his  day — push 
him  aside,  and  make  room  for  the  Fresh  and  the  NeA.'* 
But  the  Author  never  admits  that  old  age  can  fall  on  the 
Header.  The  Reader  to  liim  is  a  being  in  whom  youth 
is  renewed  through  all  cycles.  Leaning  on  his  crutch, 
the  Author  still  walks  by  the  side  of  that  friendly  Shadow 
as  he  walked  on  summer  eves,  with  a  school-fiiend  of 
boyhood — talking  of  the  future  with  artless,  hopefil  lips  I 
Dreams  he  that  a  day  may  come  when  he  will  1  ive  no 
Reader  !  0  school-boy  !  dost  thou  ever  dreai;  Ihal  a 
day  may  come  when  thou  wilt  have  no  friend  ? 


CHAPTER    II. 

Etchings  of  Hyde  Park  in  the  month  of  June,  which,  if  this  His- 
tory escape  those  viHains  the  trunk-makers,  may  be  of  inesti- 
mable value  to  unborn  antiquarians.  —  Characters,  long  absent, 
reappear  and  give  some  account  of  themselves. 

Five  years  have  passed  away  since  this  History  opened. 
It  is  the  month  of  June,  once  more — June,  which  clothes 
our  London  in  all  its  glory  ;  fills  its  languid  ball-rooms 
with  living  flowers,  and  its  stony  causeways  with  human 
butterflies.  It  is  about  the  hour  of  6  p.m.  The  lounge 
in  Ilyde  Park  is  crowded  ;  along  the  road  that  skirts  the 
Serpentine  crawl  the  carpiages  one  after  the  other  ;  con- 
gregate, bythe  rails,  the  lazy  lookers-on — lazy  in  attitude, 

XL  — 16 


182  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT 

but  with  active  eyes,  and  tongues  sharpened  on  the  whet- 
stone of  scandal ;  the  scaligers  of  Club  windows  airing 
their  vocabulary  in  the  Park.  Slowly  saunter  on  foot- 
idlers  of  all  degrees  in  the  hierarchy  of  London  idlesse ; 
dandies  of  established  fame  —  youthful  tyros  in  their  first 
season.  Yonder,  in  the  Ride,  forms  less  inanimate  seem 
condemned  to  active  exercise  ;  young  ladies  doing  penance 
in  a  canter  ;  old  beaux  at  hard  labor  in  a  trot.  Some- 
times, by  a  more  thoughtful  brow,  a  still  brisker  pace, 
you  recognize  a  busy  member  of  the  Imperial  Parliament, 
who,  advised  by  physicians  to  be  as  much  on  horseback 
as  possible,  snatches  an  hour  or  so  in  the  interval  between 
the  close  of  his  Committee  and  the  interest  of  the  Debate, 
and  shirks  the  opening  speech  of  a  well  known  bore. 
Among  such  truant  lawgivers  (grief  it  is  to  say  it)  may 
be  seen  that  once  model  member.  Sir  Jasper  Stollhead. 
Grim  dyspepsia  seizing  on  him  at  last,  "relaxation  from 
his  duties  "  becomes  the  adequate  punishment  for  all  his 
sins.  Solitary  he  rides,  and,  communing  with  himself, 
yawns  at  every  second.  Upon  chairs,  beneficently  located 
under  the  trees  toward  the  north  side  of  the  walk,  are  in- 
terspersed small  knots  and  coteries  in  repose.  There, 
you  might  see  the  Ladies  Prymme,  still  the  Ladies 
Prymrae  —  Janet  and  Wilhelmina  ;  Janet  has  grown  fat, 
Wilhelmina  thin.  But  thin  or  fat,  they  are  no  less 
Prymmes.  They  do  not  lack  male  attendants  ;  they  are 
girls  of  high  fashion,  with  whom  young  men  think  it  a 
distinction  to  be  talking ;  of  high  principle,  too,  and  high 
pretensions  (unhappily  for  themselves  they  are  coheiresses), 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  183 

by  whom  yonnp:  men  under  the  rank  of  earls  need  not 
fear  to  be  artfully  entrapped  into  "honorable  intentions." 
They  coquet  majestically,  but  they  never  flirt ;  they  exact 
devotion,  but  they  do  not  ask  in  each  victim  a  sacrifice 
on  the  horns  of  the  altar  ;  they  will  never  give  their  hands 
where  they  do  not  give  their  hearts ;  and  being  ever 
afrhid  that  they  are  courted  for  their  money,  they  will 
never  give  their  hearts  save  to  wooers  who  have  much 
more  money  than  themselves.  Many  young  men  stop  to 
do  passing  homage  to  the  Ladies  Prymme  ;  some  linger 
to  converse — safe  young  men,  they  are  all  younger  sons. 
Farther  on,  Lady  Frost  and  Mr.  Crampe  the  wit,  sit  ami- 
cably side  by  side,  pecking  at  each  other  with  sarcastic 
beaks  ;  occasionally  desisting,  to  fasten  nip  and  claw  upon 
that  common  enemy,  the  passing  friend  !  The  Slowes,  a 
numerous  family,  but  taciturn,  sit  by  themselves — bowed 
to  much ;  accosted  rarely. 

Note  that  man  of  good  presence,  somewhere  about 
thirty,  or  a  year  or  two  more,  who,  recognized  by  most 
of  the  loungers,  seems  not  at  home  in  the  lounge.  He 
has  passed  by  the  various  coteries  just  described,  made 
his  obeisance  to  the  Ladies  Prymme,  received  an  icy  epi- 
gram from  Lady  Frost,  and  a  laconic  sneer  from  Mr. 
Crampe,  and  exchanged  silent  bows  with  seven  silent 
Slowes.  He  has  wandered  on,  looking  high  in  the  air, 
but  still  looking  for  some  one,  not  in  the  air,  and,  evi- 
dently disappointed  in  his  search,  comes  to  a  full  stop  at 
iength,  takes  off  his  hat,  wipes  his  brow,  utters  a  petulant 
"  Pit — r — pshaw  1 "  and  seeing,  a  little  in  the  background, 


184  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

the  cliairless  shade  of  n  thin,  emaciated,  dusty  tree, 
thither  he  retires,  aud  seats  himself  with  as  little  care 
whether  there  to  seat  himself  be  the  right  thing  in  the 
right  place,  as  if  in  the  honey- ruckle  arbor  of  a  village 
inn.  "It  serves  me  right,"  said  he,  to  himself,  "a  pre- 
cocious villain  bursts  in  upon  me,  breaks  my  day,  makes 
an  appointment  to  meet  here,  in  these  very  walks,  ten 
minutes  before  six ;  decoys  me  with  the  promise  of  a 
dinner  at  Putney — room  looking  on  the  river,  and  fried 
flounders.  I  have  the  credulity  to  yield  ;  I  derange  my 
habits — I  leave  my  cool  studio  ;  I  put  off  my  easy  blouse  ; 
I  imprison  my  free-born  throat  in  a  cravat  invented  by 
the  Thugs  ;  the  dog-days  are  at  hand,  and  I  walk  rashly 
over  scorching  pavements  in  a  black  frock-coat,  and  a 
brimless  hat ;  I  annihilate  3s.  Qd.  in  a  pair  of  kid  gloves  ; 
I  arrive  at  this  haunt  of  spleen  ;  I  run  the  gauntlet  of 
Frosts,  Slowes,  and  Prymmes  ; — and  my  traitor  fails  me  ! 
Half  past  six  —  not  a  sign  of  him!  and  the  dinner  at 
Putney — fried  flounders  ?  Dreams  !  Patience,  five  minutes 
more  ;  if  then  he  comes  not — breach  for  life  between  him 
and  me  !  Ah,  voild  /  there  he  comes,  the  laggard  !  But 
how  those  fine  folks  are  catching  at  him  !  Has  he  asked 
them  also  to  dinner  at  Putney,  and  do  they  care  for  fried 
flounders  ? " 

The  soliloquist's  eye  is  on  a  young  man,  much  younger 
than  himself,  who  is  threading  the  motley  crowd  with  a 
light  quick  step,  but  is  compelled  to  stop  at  each  moment 
to  interchange  a  word  of  welcome,  a  shake  of  the  hand. 
Evidently  he  has  already  a  large  acquaintance  :  evident^/ 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  185 

he  is  popular,  on  good  terms  with  the  world  and  himself. 
What  free  grace  in  his  bearing  1  what  gay  good-huraor 
in  his  smile  !  Powers  above  !  Lady  Wilhelraina  surely 
blushes  as  she  returns  his  bow.  He  has  passed  Lady 
Frost  unblighted  ;  the  Slowes  evince  emotion,  at  least  the 
female  Slowes,  as  he  shoots  by  them  with  that  sliding  bow. 
lie  looks  from  side  to  side,  with  a  rapid  glance  of  an  eye 
in  which  light  seems  all  dance  and  sparkle ;  he  sees  the 
soliloquist  under  the  meagre  tree — the  pace  quickens,  the 
lips  part,  half  laughing. 

"  Don't  scold,  Yance.  I  am  late,  I  know  j  but  I  did 
not  make  allowance  for  interceptions." 

"  Body  o'  me,  interceptions  1  For  an  absentee  just  ar- 
rived in  London,  you  seem  to  have  no  lack  of  friends," 

"  Friends  made  in  Paris,  and  found  again  here  at  every 
corner,  like  pleasant  surprises.  But  no  friend  so  welcome, 
and  dear,  as  Frank  Yance." 

"  Sensible  of  the  honor,  0  Liouello  the  magnificent. 
Yerily  you  are  hon  Prince  !  The  Houses  of  Yalois  and 
of  Medici  were  always  kind  to  artists.  But  whither  would 
you  lead  me  ?  Back  into  that  tread-mill  ?  Thank  you, 
humbly  ;  no.  A  crowd  in  fine  clothes  is  of  all  mobs  the 
dullest.  I  can  look  undismayed  on  the  many-headed 
monster,  wild  and  rampant ;  but  when  the  many-headed 
monster  "buys  its  hats  in  Bond  Street,  and  has  an  eye- 
glass at  each  of  its  inquisitive  eyes,  I  confess  I  take  fright. 
Besides,  it  is  near  seven  o'clock  ;  Putney  not  visible,  and 
the  flounders  not  fried  1 " 

"  My  cab  is  waiting  yonder  ;  we  must  walk  to  it  —  we 
16* 


186  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

can  keep  on  the  turf,  and  avoid  the  throng.  But  tell  me 
honestly,  Yance,  do  you  really  dislike  to  mix  in  crowds — 
you,  with  your  fame,  dislike  the  eyes  that  turn  back  to 
look  again,  and  the  lips  that  respectfully  murmur,  'Yance, 
the  Painter  ? '  Ah,  I  always  said  you  would  be  a  great 
painter.   And  in  five  short  years  you  have  soared  high." 

"  Pooh  !  "  answered  Yance,  indifferently.  "  Nothing  is 
pure  and  unadulterated  in  London  use  :  not  cream,  nor 
cayenne  pepper — least  of  all,  Fame  ;  mixed  up  with  the 
most  deleterious  ingredients.     Fame  !  did  you  read  the 

Times^  critique  on  my  pictures  in  the  present  Exhibition  ? 
Fame,  indeed  1  Change  the  subject.  Nothing  so  good 
as  flounders.  Ho  !  is  that  your  cab  ?  Superb  I  Car  fit 
for  the  '  Grecian  youth  of  talents  rare,'  in  Mr.  Enfield's 

Speaker;  horse  that  seems  conjured  out  of  the  Elgin 

marbles.     Is  he  quiet  ?  " 

"  Not  very  ;  but  trust  to  my  driving.     You  may  well 

admire  the  horse — present  from  Darrell,  chosen  by  Colonel 

Morley." 

When  the  young  men  had  settled  themselves  in  the 

vehicle,  Lionel  dismissed  his  groom,  and,  touching  his 

horse,  the  animal  trotted  out  briskly. 

"  Frank,"  said  Lionel,  shaking  his  dark  curls  with  a 

petulant  gravity,  "  your  cynical  definitions  are  unworthy 

that   masculine  beard.     You  despise  fame  !   what  shee* 

affectation  I 

**Pulverera  OWmpicum 
Collegisse  juvat;  metaque  ferviJis 


Evitata  rotis 


Take  care,"  cried  Yance  ;  "  we  shaU  be  over."     Fot 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  181 

Lionel,  growittg  excited,  teased  the  horse  with  his  whip ; 
and  the  horse  bolting,  took  the  cab  within  an  inch  of  a 
water-cart. 

"  Fame,  Fame  1 "  cried  Lionel,  unheeding  the  interrup- 
tion. "  What  would  I  not  give  to  have  and  to  hold  it  for 
an  hour !" 

"  Hold  an  eel,  less  slippery  ;  a  scorpion,  less  stinging  I 
But  —  "  added  Yance,  observing  his  companion's  height- 
ened color.  *'  But,"  he  added  seriously,  and  with  an  honest 
compunction,  "  I  forgot,  you  are  a  soldier,  you  follow  the 
career  of  arms  !  Never  heed  what  is  said  on  the  subject 
by  a  querulous  painter  I  The  desire  of  fame  may  be  folly 
in  civilians,  in  soldiers  it  is  wisdom.  Twin-born  with  the 
martial  sense  of  honor,  it  cheers  the  march,  it  warms  the 
bivouac  ;  it  gives  music  to  the  whirr  of  the  bullet,  the  roar 
of  the  ball ;  it  plants  hope  in  the  thick  of  peril ;  knits 
rivals  with  the  bond  of  brothers ;  comforts  the  survivor 
when  the  brother  falls ;  takes  from  war  its  grim  aspect 
of  carnage  ;  and  from  homicide  itself  extracts  lessons  that 
strengthen  the  safeguards  to  humanity,  and  perpetuate 
life  to  nations.  Right  —  pant  for  fame  ;  you  are  a  sol- 
dier I " 

This  was  one  of  those  bursts  of  high  sentiment  from 
Yance,  which,  as  they  were  very  rare  with  him,  had  the 
dramatic  effect  of  surprise.  Lionel  listened  to  him  with  a 
thrilling  delight.  He  could  not  answer,  he  was  too  moved. 
The  artist  resumed,  as  the  cabriolet  now  cleared  the  Park, 
and  rolled  safely  and  rapidly  along  the  road.  "  I  suppose, 
during  the  five  years  you  have  spent  abroad,  completion 


188  WHAT    WILL    HE    T)  0    WITH    IT? 

your  general  education,  you  have  made  little  study,  oi 
none,  of  what  specially  appertain?  to  the  profession  you 
have  so  recently  chosen." 

"  You  are  mistaken  there,  my  dear  Yance.  If  a  man's 
heart  be  set  on  a  thing,  he  is  always  studying  it.  The 
books  I  loved  best,  and  most  pondered  over,  were  such 
as,  if  they  did  not  administer  lessons,  suggested  hints  ^hat 
might  turn  to  lessons  hereafter.  In  social  intercourse,  I 
never  was  so  pleased  as  when  I  could  fasten  myself  to 
some  practical  veteran — question  and  cross-examine  him. 
One  picks  up  more  ideas  in  conversation  than  from  books ; 
at  least  I  do.  Besides,  my  idea  of  a  soldier  who  is  to 
succeed  some  day,  is  not  that  of  a  mere  mechanician  at 
arms.  See  how  accomplished  most  great  captains Tiave 
been.  What  observers  of  mankind  ! — What  diplomatists 
— what  reasoners  I  what  men  of  action,  because  men  to 
whom  reflection  had  been  habitual  before  they  acted  I 
How  many  stores  of  ideas  must  have  gone  to  the  judg- 
ment which  hazards  the  sortie,  or  decides  on  the  re- 
treat ! " 

"Gently,  gently!"  cried  Yance.  "We  shall  be  into 
that  omnibus  !  Give  me  the  whip  —  do  ;  there  —  a  little 
more  to  the  left  —  so.  Yes;  I  am  glad  to  see  such 
enthusiasm  in  your  profession  —  'tis  half  the  battle, 
llazlitt  said  a  capital  thing,  '  the  'prentice  who  does  not 
consider  the  Lord  Mayor  in  his  gilt  coach  the  greatest 
man  in  the  world  will  live  to  be  hanged!'" 

"Pish!"  said  Lionel  catching  at  the  whip. 

Yi\NCE  (holding  it  back).   "  No.     I  apologize  instead 


WHAT     WILL    B  XL    DO     WITH    IT?  189 

I  retract  the  Lord  Mayor ;  comparisons  are  odious.  I 
agree  with  you,  nothing  like  leather  —  I  mean  nothing 
like  a  really  great  soldier  —  Hannibal,  and  so  forth. 
Cherish  that  conviction,  my  boy ;  meanwhile,  respect 
human  life  —  there  is  another  omnibus!" 

The  danger  past,  the  artist  thought  it  prudent  to  divert 
the  conversation  into  some  channel  less  exciting. 

"  Mr.  Darrell,  of  course,  consents  to  your  choice  of  a 
profession  ?  " 

"Consents  —  approves,  encourages.  Wrote  me  such 
a  beautiful  letter  —  what  a  comprehensive  intelligence 
that  man  has  !  " 

"  Necessarily  ;  since  he  agrees  with  you.  Where  is  he 
now  ?  " 

"I  have  no  notion;  it  is  some  months  since  I  heard 
from  him.  He  was  then  at  Malta,  on  his  return  from 
Asia  Minor." 

"  So  !  you  have  never  seen  him  since  he  bade  you  fare- 
well at  his  old  Manor-House  ?  " 

"Never.     He  has  not,  I  believe,  been  in  England." 

"  Nor  in  Paris,  where  you  seem  to  have  chiefly  resided  ?" 

"  Nor  in  Paris.  Ah,  Yance,  could  I  but  be  of  some 
comfort  to  him  I  Now  that  I  am  older,  I  think  I  under- 
stand in  him  much  that  perplexed  me  as  a  boy,  when  we 
parted.  Darrell  is  one  of  those  men  who  require  a  home 
Between  the  great  world  and  solitude,  he  needs  the  inter- 
mediate filling  up  which  the  life  domestic  alone  supplies  : 
a  wife  to  realize  the  sweet  word  helpmate — children,  with 
whose  fut[*re  he  could  knit  his  own  toils  and  his  ancestral 
2n 


190  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

remembrances.  That  intermediate  space  annihilated,  the 
great  world  and  the  solitude  are  left,  each  frowning  on 
the  other. 

"  My  dear  Lionel,  you  must  have  lived  with  very  clever 
people;  you  are  talking  far  above  your  years." 

■'Am  I?  True,  I  have  lived,  if  not  with  very  clever 
people,  with  people  far  above  my  years.  That  is  a  secret 
I  learned  from  Colonel  Morley,  to  whom  I  must  present 
you  —  the  subtlest  intellect  under  the  quietest  manner. 
Once  he  said  to  me,  '  Would  you  throughout  life  be  up  tc 
the  height  of  your  century  —  always  in  the  prime  of  man's 
reason  —  without  crudeness  and  without  decline  —  live 
habitually,  while  young,  with  persons  older,  and,  when 
old,  with  persons  younger  than  yourself.'" 

'*  Shrewdly  said,  indeed.  I  felicitate  you  on  the 
evident  result  of  the  maxim.  And  so  Darrell  has  no 
home ;  no  wife,  and  no  children  ?  " 

"  He  has  long  been  a  widower  ;  he  lost  his  only  son  in 
boyhood,  and  his  daughter  —  did  you  never  hear  ?  " 

"No  — what— ?" 

"  Married  so  ill  —  a  runaway  match  —  and  died  many 
years  since,  without  issue." 

"  Poor  man  I  It  was  these  afflictions,  then,  that  soured 
his  life,  and  made  him  the  hermit  or  the  wanderer  ?  " 

"There,"  said  Lionel,  "I  am  puzzled;  for  I  find  that 
even  after  his  son's  death  and  his  daughter's  unhappy 
marriage  and  estrangement  from  him,  he  was  still  in 
Parliament,  and  in  full  activity  of  career.  But  certainly 
he  did  not  long  keep  it  up.     It  might  have  been  an  effort 


WHAT     WILL     HE     DO     WITH     IT?  191 

to  which,  strong  as  he  is,  he  felt  himself  unequal ;  or, 
might  he  nave  known  some  fresh  disappointment,  some 
new  sorrow  which  the  world  never  guesses  ?  what  I  have 
said  as  to  his  family  afflictions  the  world  knows.  But  I 
think  he  will  marry  again.  That  idea  seemed  strong  in 
his  own  mind  when  we  parted  ;  he  brought  it  out  bluntly, 
roughly.  Colonel  Morley  is  convinced  that  he  will  marry, 
if  but  for  the  sake  of  an  heir." 

Vance.  "And  if  so,  my  ]  "»or  Lionel,  you  are  ousted 
of—" 

Lionel  (quickly  interrupting;.  "  Hush  !  Do  not  say, 
my  dear  Yance,  do  not  you  say  —  you  !  —  one  of  those 
low,  mean  things  which,  if  said  to  me  even  by  men  for 
whom  I  have  no  esteem,  make  my  ears  tingle  and  my 
cheek  blush.  When  I  think  of  what  Darrell  has  already 
done  for  me  —  me  w^ho  have  no  claim  on  him  —  it  seems 
to  me  as  if  I  must  hate  the  man  who  insinuates,  *  Fear 
lest  your  benefactor  find  a  smile  at  his  own  hearth,  a 
child  of  his  own  blood  —  for  you  may  be  richer  at  his 
death  in  proportion  as  his  life  is  desolate." 

Yance.  "  You  are  a  fine  young  fellow,  and  I  beg  your 
pardon.  Take  care  of  that  milestone  —  thank  you.  But 
I  suspect  that  at  least  two-thirds  of  those  friendly  hands 
that  detained  you  on  the  way  to  me,  were  stretched  out 
les?  to  Lionel  Haughton — a  Cornet  in  the  Guards — than 
to  Mr.  Darrell's  heir-presumptive." 

Lionel  "That  thought  sometimes  galls  me,  but  it  does 
me  good  ;  for  it  goads  on  my  desire  to  make  myself  some 
one  whom  the  most  worldly  would  not  disdain  to  kno\» 


192  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

for  his  own  sake.  Oh  for  active  service  !  —  Oh  for  a 
sharp  campaign  !  —  Oh  for  fair  trial  how  far  a  man  in 
earnest  can  grapple  Fortune  to  his  breast  with  his  own 
strong  hands  !  You  have  done  so,  Vance  ;  you  had  but 
your  genius  and  your  painter's  brush.  I  have  no  genius, 
but  I  have  resolve,  and  resolve  is  perhaps  as  eure  of  its 
ends  as  genius.  Genius  and  Kesolve  have  three  grand 
elements  in  common  —  Patience,  Hope,  Concentration.'' 
Yance,  more  and  more  surprised,  looked  hard  at 
Lionel,  without  speaking.  Five  years  of  that  critical  age, 
from  seventeen  to  twenty-two,  spent  in  the  great  capital 
of  Europe  —  kept  from  its  more  dangerous  vices  partly 
by  a  proud  sense  of  personal  dignity,  partly  by  a  tempera- 
ment which,  regarding  love  as  an  ideal  for  all  tender  and 
sublime  emotion,  recoiled  from  low  profligacy  as  being  to 
Love  what  the  Yahoo  of  the  mocking  satirist  was  to  Man 

—  absorbed  much  by  the  brooding  ambition  that  takes 
youth  out  of  the  frivolous  present  into  the  serious  future, 
and  seeking  companionship,  not  with  contemporary  idlers, 
but  with  the  highest  and  maturist  intellects  that  the  free 
commonwealth  of  good  society  brought  within  his  reach 

—  five  years  so  spent  had  developed  a  boy,  nursing 
noble  dreams,  into  a  man  fit  for  noble  action  —  retaining: 
freshest  youth  in  its  enthusiasm,  its  elevation  of  sentiment, 
its  daring,  its  energy,  and  divine  credulity  in  its  own  un- 
exhausted resources  ;  but  borrowing  from  maturity  com- 
pactness and  solidity  of  idea  —  the  link  between  specula- 
tion and  practice  —  the  power  to  impress  on  others  a 
sense  of  the  superiority  which  has  been  self-elaborated  by 
unconscious  culture. 


WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT?  193 

m 

**  So  !  "  said  Yance,  after  a  prolonged  pause,  "  I  don't 
know  whether  I  have  resolve  or  genius ;  but,  certainly,  if 
I  have  made  my  way  to  some  small  reputation,  patience, 
hope,  and  concentration  of  purpose  must  have  the  credit 
of  it ;  and  prudence,  too,  which  you  have  forgotten  to 
name,  and  certainly  don't  evince  as  a  charioteer.  I  hope, 
my  dear  fellow,  you  are  not  extravagant.     No  debts,  eh  ? 

—  why  do  you  laugh  ?  " 

"  The  question  is  so  like  you,  Frank — thrifty  as  ever." 
"  Do  you  think  I  could  have  painted  with  a  calm  mind, 
if  I  knew  that  at  my  door  there  was  a  dun  whom  I  could 
not  pay  ?  Art  needs  serenity  ;  and  if  an  artist  begin  his 
career  with  as  few  shirts  to  his  back  as  I  had,  he  must 
place  economy  among  the  rules  of  perspective." 

Lionel  laughed  again,  and  made  some  comments  on 
economy  which  were  certainly,  if  smart,  rather  flippant, 
and  tended  not  only  to  lower  the  favorable  estimate  of 
his  intellectual  improvement  which  Yance  had  just 
formed,  but  seriously  disquieted  the  kindly  artist.  Yance 
knew  the  world  —  knew  the  peculiar  temptations  to 
which  a  young  man  in  Lionel's  position  would  be  exposed 

—  knew  that  contempt  for  economy  belongs  to  that  school 
of  Peripatetics  which  reserves  its  last  lessons  for  finished 
disciples  in  the  sacred  walks  of  the  Queen's  Bench. 

However,  that  was  no  auspicious  moment  for  didactic 
warnings. 

"  Here  we  are  1  "  cried  Lionel  —  "  Putney  Bridge." 
They  reached  the  little  inn  by  the  river-side,  and  while 
IL  — 17  N 


194  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

dinner  was  getting  ready,   they  hired   a  boat.     Vance 
took  the  oars. 

Yance.  "  Not  so  pretty  here  as  by  those  green  quiet 
banks  along  which  we  glided,  at  moonlight,  five  years 
ago." 

Lionel.  "Ah,  no.  And  that  innocent,  charming 
child,  whose  portrait  you  took  —  you  have  never  heard 
of  her  since  I  " 

Yance.  "  Never  I  How  should  I  ?  Have  you  ?  " 
Lionel,  "  Only  what  Darrell  repeated  to  me.  Hia 
lawyer  had  ascertained  that  she  and  her  grandfather  had 
gone  to  America.  Darrell  gently  implied  that,  from  what 
he  learned  of  them,  they  scarcely  merited  the  interest  I 
felt  in  their  fate.  But  we  were  not  deceived  —  were  we, 
Yance  ?  " 

Yance.  "  No  ;  the  little  girl  —  what  was  her  name  ? 
Sukey  ?  Sally  ?  —  Sophy  —  true,  Sophy  —  had  something 
about  her  extremely  prepossessing,  besides  her  pretty 
face  ;  and,  in  spite  of  that  horrid  cotton  print,  I  shall 
never  forget  it." 

Lionel.  "  Her  face  1  Nor  L     I  see  it  still  before  me." 

Yance.  "  Her  cotton  print !     I  see  it  still  before  me  I 

But  I   must  not  be  ungrateful.     Would  not  believe  It, 

that  little  portrait,  which  cost  me  three  pounds,  has  made, 

1  don't  say  my  fortune,  but  my  fashion  ? " 

Lionel.   "  How  I     You  had  the  heart  to  sell  it  ?  " 
Yance.  "  No  ;  I  kept  it  as  a  study  for  young  female 
heads  — '  with  variations,'  as  they  say  in  music.     It  was 
by  my  female  heads  that  I  become  the  fashion ;    every 


WHAT     WILL     HE    DO     WITH     IT?  195 

order  I  have  contains  the  condition  —  'But  be  sure,  one 
of  your  sweet  female  heads,  Mr.  Yance.'  My  female 
heads  are  as  necessaay  to  my  canvas  as  a  white  horse  to 
Wouvermans'.  Well,  that  child,  who  cost  me  three 
pounds,  is  the  original  of  them  all.  Commencing  as  a 
Titania,  she  has  been  in  turns  a  'Psyche,'  a 'Beatrice 
Cence,'  a  'Minna,'  'A  Portrait  of  a  Nobleman's  Daugh- 
ter,' 'Burns's  Mary  in  Heaven,'  'The  Young  Gleaner,' 
and  '  Sabrina  fair,'  in  Milton's  Comus.  I  have  led  that 
child  through  all  history,  sacred  and  profane.  I  have 
painted  her  in  all  costumes  (her  own  cotton  print  ex- 
cepted). My  female  heads  are  my  glory  —  even  the 
Times^  critic  allows  that !  '  Mr.  Yance,  there,  is  inimita- 
ble I  a  type  of  childlike  grace  peculiarly  his  own,  etc., 
etc'     I'll  lend  you  the  article." 

Lionel.  "And  shall  we  never  again  see  the  original 
darling  Sophy  ?  You  will  laugh,  Yance,  but  I  have 
been  heart-proof  against  all  young  ladies.  If  ever  I 
marry,  my  wife  must  have  Sophy's  eyes  ?   In  America  I  " 

Yance.  "  Let  us  hope  by  this  time  happily  married  to 
a  Yankee  I  Yankees  marry  girls  in  their  teens,  and  don't 
ask  for  dowries.  Married  to  a  Yankee  I  not  a  doubt  of 
it !  a  Yankee  who  chaws,  whittles,  and  keeps  a  '  store  1 '  '* 

Lionel.  "  Monster  !  Hold  your  tongue  I  Apropos^ 
of  marriage,  why  are  you  still  single  ?  " 

Yance.  "Because  I  have  no  wish  to  be  doubled  uf)  ! 
Moreover,  man  is  like  a  napkin,  the  more  neatly  the 
housewife  doubles  him,  the  more  carefully  she  lays  him 
ou  the  shelf.     Neither  can  a   man  once  doubled   know 


196  WHAT    WILL    HE    DO    WITH    IT? 

how  often  he  may  be  doubled.  Not  only  his  wife  folda 
him  in  two,  but  every  child  quarters  him  into  a  new 
double,  till  what  was  a  wide  and  handsome  substance, 
krge  enough  for  any  thing  in  reason,  dwindles  into  a 
pitiful  square  that  will  not  cover  one  platter  —  all  puckers 
and  creases  —  smaller  and  smaller  with  every  double — • 
with  every  double  a  new  crease.  Then,  my  friend,  comes 
the  washing  bill  I  and,  besides  all  the  hurts  one  receives 
in  the  mangle,  consider  the  hourly  wear  and  tear  of  the 
linen-press  !  In  short,  Shakspeare  vindicates  the  single 
life,  and  depicts  the  double  in  the  famous  line  —  which  is 
no  doubt  intended  to  be  allegorical  of  marriage  — 

'  Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble.' 
Besides,  no  single  man  can  be  fairly  called  poor.  What 
double  man  can  with  certainty  be  called  rich  ?  A  single 
man  can  lodge  in  a  garret,  and  dine  on  a  herring  ;  nobody 
knows,  nobody  cares.  Let  him  marry,  and  he  invites  the 
world  to  witness  where  he  lodges,  and  how  he  dines.  The 
first  necessary  a  wife  demands  is  the  most  ruinous,  the 
most  indefinite  superfluity ;  it  is  Gentility  according  to 
what  her  neighbors  call  genteel.  Gentility  commences 
with  the  honey-moon ;  it  is  its  shadow,  and  lengthens  as 
the  moon  declines.  When  the  honey  is  all  gone,  your 
bride  says,  '  We  can  have  our  tea  without  sugar  when 
quite  alone,  love  ;  but  in  case  Gentility  drop  in,  here's  a 
bill  for  silver  sugar-tongs  I '     That's  why  I'm  single. '^ 

"Economy  again,  Yance." 

"  Prudence — dignity,"  answered  Vance  seriously  ;  and 
sinking  into  a  reverie  that  seemed  gloomy,  he  shot  back 
U)  shore 


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